


Pleased To Meet You

by PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)



Series: RabbitVerse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action & Romance, BDSM, Bisexuality, DOM VICTOR AND BOY TOY GREG!, E-stim, Frottage, Handcuffs, Homophobia, Leather Kink, Legal Prostitution, Live Sex Show, M/M, Motorcycles, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prison, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Snogging, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Tawse, Verbal Sex, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2616929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/pseuds/PreciselyVex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gregory Lestrade was 26, he spent a night in jail, but he didn't spend it alone...</p><p> **No Beta, No Britpick!**</p><p>WARNING: A good deal of the sex in this fic takes place while one or more of the participants are intoxicated, to some degree. While enthusiastic consent is given throughout the story, by all parties, the very fact that they are high may lead some to interpret these acts as inherently <em>non-consensual</em>. If that sounds like you, or if you are sensitive to these topics for any reason, it's probably best to pass this one by. :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 11:23pm

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: if you only read me for JohnLock, I'm gonna let you know now, this work pre-dates John's arrival at 221B, and Sherlock's presence is really just a cameo (but there's still plenty of fun to be had)!  
> <3  
> vex.
> 
>   
> _MUSIC NOTES_  
>  The Three-Song Playlist I listened to, on a loop, while writing "Pleased To Meet You" was the 1997-tastic:
> 
> ["Song 2"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSbBvKaM6sk) by Blur  
> ["Unbelievable"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DsZB4eyG3vA) by EMF  
> ["Tubthumping"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2H5uWRjFsGc) by Chumbawumba
> 
>   
> 

**Friday, 17 Oct 1997**

**11:23pm**

One minute he’d been tearing down the road on his uncle’s Velocette Venom Thruxton, chasing the elusive Ton, the money fucking _his_ …and the next minute, he was nicked, the blue lights of the police in his rearview and he’d almost rather have crashed the bike into the fucking guardrail than face the consequences of being caught…

“Gregory…Lestrade?” The booking officer called out at the station, choking on his last name. 

Greg lifted his chin, his expression still carrying a teenaged sullenness, even at the ripe old age of 26. “Yeah, hysterical, innit?”

“Bloody trainwreck more like it.” The officer lifted the telephone and placed it on the countertop, eyeing him quizzically. “So…you want to call him, or shall I?”

Greg rubbed a miserable hand over his miserable face and picked up the fucking phone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> You didn’t actually think I’d be gone for long, did you? ;-p
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease: The [Velocette Venom Thruxton](http://www.motorcyclespecs.co.za/Classic/VELOCETTE%20VENOM%20THRUXTON%20500.jpg) is a gorgeous machine and I’d be hard-pressed to decide who’s prettier, the motorcycle or…
> 
> \- …[1997 era Rupert Graves](http://media.tumblr.com/c6960c730062d6229a6a69329bcb67e8/tumblr_inline_mp4ovveiTl1qz4rgp.jpg).
> 
> \- As presented here, Greg is a fan of 1960s/70s UK [Café Racer](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caf%C3%A9_racer) culture, presumably because of his uncle.
> 
> \- What is “The Ton”? The goal of many café racers was to be able to reach a speed of 100 miles per hour (160 km/h) over short, defined distances. The speed was referred to as simply “the ton”.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by and giving this one a go! Hope you like it!  
> <3   
> vex.


	2. 11:58pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is escorted to a holding cell…

 

**11:58pm**

He’d actually been in a cell once, as a child, on a night when his Dad had to work late, and his Mum brought him dinner. It hadn’t taken Greg long to convince one of the officers to let him see “where the bad men go”, and he was given a tour. The officer even let him sit on a bunk with the door closed, so that little Greg could see what it was really like.

Twenty years later, and he’d become the bad man now, he supposed -- and he hoped against hope that they wouldn’t put him in the same bloody cell he’d toured at age six…

“What’d he say?” The officer that escorted him to the cell tried to play himself off as a friendly sort, but Greg knew he was just looking for dirt, fodder for the rumor mill. Everyone wanted to know exactly how far off the deep end Chief Superintendent Dominic Lestrade had gone once he’d heard the news about his errant son.

“Well, he’s not bailing me out tonight, now is he?” Greg snapped, running a frustrated hand through his dark hair. The officer closed his mouth and kept quiet the rest of the way, speaking only once they’d reached the cell.

“Right then. You’ll spend the night here, and either wait until you’re bailed out, or you’ll be transferred to a more permanent cell to await a hearing with the judge.” The officer leaned in then, opened the cell door and spoke confidentially. “Look, you fucked up, Greg. It’s going to take a bit for Lestrade to push past this. Until then, in you go.”

Greg moved to the door, and immediately noticed the figure slumped over one of the benches in the next cell over.

“Oh, right. You’ve got a neighbor,” the officer said, and turned in the figure’s direction, banging on the bars. “Wake up, you sodding drunk, you’ve got company!” The figure startled awake, grumbled, and rolled over. The officer turned to grin at Greg. “Good news is, he honked up once already, when we booked him, so I don’t think he’ll do it again.”

“Fantastic,” Greg mumbled under his breath.

“Aww, don’t worry, buddy boy.” The officer said. “Sleep tight, lad.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease: [The bar-y place…](http://animalnewyork.com/wp-content/uploads/animalny_bars.jpg)
> 
> \- Dominic Lestrade’s rank has been a matter of some confusion for my tiny little brain. I wanted him to be the commander of his small division, so I settled on [Chief Superintendent with the Met](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chief_superintendent)*. Of course, once I decided that, I realized that the [Sheehy Inquiry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheehy_Inquiry) abolished the rank in the UK in 1995 (two years before this fic – but they did allow those who already held the rank to keep it, and I believe Dominic to be one of those folks). 
> 
> *I’m sure some fantastic Britpicker out there knows Met police ranks far better than myself, so please don’t hesitate to correct me if I got it wrong! 
> 
>  
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	3. 12:01am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets the man in the cell next door...

 

**Saturday, 18 October 1997**

**12:01am**

When the Officer left, Greg exhaled, and looked around, taking stock of the cell: a small cinderblock bench built in an L-shape, with bright blue vinyl bedding; a stainless steel toilet with sink, just like in the movies; a glass-blocked window; the back wall was tiled, cracked in places; the other walls were nothing but metal bars, leaving little to no privacy from cell to cell. Lastly, there was the cell door, the paint on its bars scratched and chipping.

With a sigh, he dropped onto the bench, positioning himself as far from the drunk as humanly possible, because the very last thing he wanted to do tonight was clean vomit off his leathers. Greg leaned back on the blue foam pad and closed his eyes, wishing for sleep to come quickly, so this whole night could be over and done with.

It was quiet, the only noise the hum of the ventilation system and the buzz of florescent lighting, until…

“Did you win?”

The voice surprised him – American, and not particularly drunk. The man sounded inquisitive and sharp, amused even. Greg popped one eye open. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“I can see that.” The man said, sitting up. With his back to the wall and his feet on the ground, he appeared less vagrant, more cocky, and clearly more sober than he’d let on to the police. He pulled the hoodie away from his head, revealing tangled, shoulder-length dark blond hair. The stranger shot a friendly smile his way.

Greg returned the smile - no need to be unpleasant. “Leathers give me away?”

“And your haircut.”  The man stretched his legs out wide, his clear blue eyes staring now, making Greg feel slightly self-conscious.

“Clever, are you?”

“Not as clever as some I know.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “But you didn’t answer me: Did you win?”

Greg groaned and closed both his eyes. “I would have. If I’d not gotten nicked a block and a half from the finish.”

“Lakeside?”

Now, that got his attention: how the fuck did this American know about London street racing? He sat up then and decided to see how much the Yank _actually_ knew. “Try again, mate. I ran Blackwall Tunnel tonight.”

The other man lifted a brow. “I thought only cars did tunnel runs.”

“Nah, I’ve been racing there since last summer. You should hear what a bike engine sounds like, screaming through a tunnel, filtering around cars, brilliant!”

“Gotta have some balls to filter in a tunnel.”

“That’s me, bollocks to spare,” Greg said with a grin, and watched his neighbor light a cigarette, the sulfur smell of the match flaring in the small space, and then receding. He held out his right hand to the other man, through the bars. “I’m Greg, by the way. “

The other man eyed him, amused at the formality, and stood up. He was taller than Greg had expected, and solidly built. With a smile, he reached over to accept the handshake. “Vic.”

“Well, pleased to meet you, “ Greg said, inhaling the other man’s cigarette, deeply regretting not stopping for a pack of his own before the race. “Wondering, though - any chance I could have one of those?”

“Sure.” He walked over to the bars that separated the two cells and placed the pack on the ledge. “Help yourself. I got more than enough to get me through the night. Need a light?”

Greg fished in his pockets unsuccessfully. “Shit, yeah, sorry…do you mind?”

“Come here, then.” Victor motioned, moving closer to the bars,  “I’m running out of matches.” Inches away, Greg watched his neighbor lean in and take a drag, making the cherry on his cigarette flare. Greg followed suit with only the smallest of hesitations, smelling the man’s cologne, layered with the scent of, what? Bubblegum? Greg shrugged - at least it wasn’t vomit. He leaned in to touch the end of his cigarette to Victor’s ember.

“Thanks, this works,” said Greg, stepping back as soon as it was lit, putting more space than necessary between them.

“A Cigarette Kiss.” Victor smiled.

“What?”

“That’s what it’s called, when you light one cigarette from another.” Victor explained.  “Well, that’s the polite name, anyway. I’ve also heard it called a Dutch Fuck…people are always so mean about the Dutch.”

Greg looked at him skeptically. “Never knew it had a name, polite or otherwise. I always thought it was just…lighting one cigarette with another.” He inhaled, and pushed Victor’s cigarette pack back through the bars. “Cheers.”

They both sat on their benches, a wall separating them. Greg leaned back and blew out a thin stream of smoke, trying not to think about the fact that Victor lingered, close to his side of his cell.

“You’re…not drunk, are you?”

 “No.”

“But they said you were drunk.”

 “I _was_ drunk, but I sobered up.” Victor shrugged. “That’s what the drunk tank’s for, right?”

 “Sobered up quick, didn’t you?”

Victor turned to face him directly. “What’s with the third degree, Greg?”

“I-I’m just curious.” Greg stammered, feeling the full impact of Victor’s stare.

“I bet you are.” Victor smirked, and stood up, moving towards the hallway.  He craned his neck to look through the bars.  “Tell me something?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did the officer call you by your first name?”

 Greg cocked his head. “Hmm?”

“He said ‘Look, you fucked up, Greg’. I’ve been here four hours and no one’s called me anything but ‘you sodding drunk’.” Victor looked away from the window, and turned back to him. “You’re here ten minutes and it’s ‘Greg’. You get arrested a lot, Road Rash?”

“Me? No…”

“Then why the special treatment?” Victor lifted an eyebrow, the question hanging in the air.

Greg looked away, silently cursing the officer. There wasn’t a chance he was going to explain to Victor who his Dad was, or why his father had decided to let him rot away in his own holding cell.

“Not gonna answer? That’s fair. Everyone’s got a right to a few secrets. Hold this for me?” Victor moved back to the bars that separated them and handed a confused Greg his cigarette. He stepped back, pulling off his hoodie to reveal a truly horrible blue polyester print shirt underneath. Before Greg could comment, his cellmate placed one foot on his toilet, lifting himself up and gripping the edge of the doorframe, balancing to get a better look down the hallway. “Now, with that in mind, I won’t ask you _why_ you know this station, but you _do_ know this station, don’t you?”

Greg paused, then slowly nodded. Victor smiled. “ Now we’re getting somewhere. Any chance you know how many officers are currently on duty?”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, there were maybe half a dozen in the office when I was booked.”

“I’ve been watching and it looks like only two patrol this hall, at 15 minute intervals, the ginger and the one who walked you down here.”

 _Eddie and Dave_ , Greg thought, but all he said was “Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Any cameras?” Victor asked. “There’s none in the cell, but I can’t tell what’s shooting down the hall.”

Greg ran a nervous hand through his spiky brown hair. “What, are you planning a jailbreak or something?”

“Do I look like Steve McQueen to you?” Victor quipped, and then peered at Greg pointedly. “Then again, now that I think of it, get a little age on you and you might.”

“I don’t look like bloody Steve McQueen…”

“He did ride a motorcycle.”

“Why are you asking about the cameras?”

Victor hopped down from his perch and walked over to Greg to reclaim his cigarette. As he did, his other hand reached into his pants pocket, slyly revealing a peek of a plastic zip bag containing a handful of brightly colored tablets. “I just want to make sure they get my good side,” he said, with a winning smile.

“What is that?” Greg asked.

“It ain’t candy, pal o’mine…”

“Drugs?” Greg marveled at the Yank’s audacity. “You smuggled drugs _into_ prison?”

“Well, that wasn’t my original intention, but then again, a lot of things happened tonight that I didn’t expect.”

“How did you get it in here?”

“Slight of hand. Puking helped. Distracts everyone.” Victor shrugged, as if it was something he did everyday. “Look, man,” he said, running his hand over the pocket with the baggie in it. “Tell me what you know about the cameras and I’ll share.”

“That kind of depends on what you’re sharing, doesn’t it?” Greg answered, suspiciously.

“3,4-methylenedioxy- _N_ -methylamphetamine. C11H15NO2.You savvy science?” Victor said quickly, the formula tripping off his tongue, catching his cellmate by surprise.

Greg had been shite at chemistry and hadn’t gotten any better in the years since he’d last been a student. “Something-amphetamine, I caught that. So, something speedy.”

“Yeah, you would know about speed, wouldn’t you Road Rash?” Victor said with a laugh, and stubbed out his smoke on the floor of the cell. “It’s just the highest quality X you’ll find in London, and its only here for a limited time, just like me…”

“Ecstasy…” Greg mused. He’d tried it once, years ago, on holiday at the seaside. He’d been in a club and time had compressed, four hours of dancing felt like ten minutes and he’d been happier than he had been in a long time.  It was a fond memory, but one that hadn’t been repeated – his crowd was more drawn to beer and cigarettes than drugs, and X, in particular, brought to mind embarrassing neon-tinted, dummy-sucking ravers – _so_ not his scene.

But today, in this holding cell, a little time compression might come in handy, and with any luck, it would wear off right around the time dear Daddy might bail him out, IF he was planning to bail him out. Greg considered his options. To get the Yank to share, Greg would have to share what he knew about the cameras. What if this tosser did something with that information, something other than get high? Well, fuck it, Greg thought, what if he did? Dad deserved it, didn’t he, for allowing his own son to be arrested, for leaving him here to rot overnight...

“Fine. Deal.”

“Great, knew I liked you.” Victor sat down on the bench closest to Greg, eager.

“Okay, so,” Greg began, “there _are_ cameras in the station…”

“…dammit…”

“…but they’re not monitored. I mean, they used to be, but budget cuts. Now everyone’s too busy to pay the monitors any mind. That’s why the hallway patrols.”

“Well, the cameras record, right? To tape or something?” Victor asked.

“Nope,” Greg said. “The decks broke down six months ago. The company they’d bought the system from went out of business, so they’re waiting for next year’s budget to upgrade to DVD. In the meantime…”

“In the meantime, no recordings.”

“Right.” Greg nodded again, happy that he’d paid attention to his father’s griping about work during Sunday dinners. “So, assuming we can stay under the radar of the patrols, we’re clear.”

Victor nodded, and fished out a baby-blue tablet with a bird stamped on it, and a green one with a frog on a lily pad. “Bluebird or frog?”

Greg grinned and reached for a tablet. “Bluebird.”

“Guess that makes me the frog.” Victor said, and threw his head back to dry-swallow the remaining pill.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> So, did you guess it was Victor?  
> (Sorry, Tishy!)
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease: [Cigarette Kiss](http://i.imgur.com/Xz6JzAD.gif) (Image from the manga "Black Lagoon")
> 
> \- [1997 era Brad Pitt](http://cineplex.media.baselineresearch.com/images/309381/309381_full.jpg)
> 
> \- [Lakeside Street Racing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edjBF3otVdk)
> 
> \- [Tunnel Running](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tunnel_Running) originated in 2004, so if Greg and his friends really were running tunnels in 1997, they were pioneers! [Here’s a run through Blackwall Tunnel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuyNL2lbgFs)...
> 
> \- -[“…people are always so mean about the Dutch.”](http://www.newnetherlandinstitute.org/files/2613/6700/9122/DISSING_THE_DUTCH.pdf)
> 
> \- [“Road Rash”](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z_-wcLSvgy8/Ujh1kfCzvbI/AAAAAAAAGmY/o_epIoywiiI/s640/road_rash_-_1992_-_electronic_arts1.png) is the name of a classic motorcycle-racing video game series by Electronic Arts in which the player participates in violent, illegal street races.
> 
> \- I think Rupert Graves really does sort of resemble [Steve McQueen back in the day](http://www.listal.com/viewimage/3196069)…
> 
> \- What horrible shirt is Victor wearing today? [Try this beauty](http://www.dressthatman.com/view-SHIRT4347.htm)...
> 
> \- [MDMA is Ecstasy is X is Molly is Mandy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MDMA)…(and no, this fic does not endorse the use of drugs...unless they are hand manufactured by Victor Trevor himself!)
> 
> \- [“…embarrassing neon-tinted, dummy-sucking ravers…”](https://glasgowliving.today/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/dummy.jpg)
> 
> \- [Bluebird or frog](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/kWwmiUXJr5I/hqdefault.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this weekend of fun, and today’s chapter - and I’ll see you next Sunday for an update!
> 
> Thanks for reading! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	4. 12:53am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drugs start to kick in, and Greg and Victor take the time to get to know one another…

 

_“An MDMA pill takes effect after 30 to 45 minutes, starting with little rushes of exhilaration.”_

_-[A Rough Guide to Ecstasy](http://www.urban75.com/Drugs/e_guide.html)_

 

**12:53am**

“It’s not working.”

“It is working.”

“No, it definitely is not working.”

“Are you still in prison?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you feeling good?”

“Oh yeah.”

“It’s working, then.”

Greg was standing, pulsing, his spine alive and his legs restless. He rubbed his hands together, quickly. “You know, I do feel good. I mean, I’m not really an athlete, but I’m pretty sure I could run a mile right now, no problem, without even breathing hard, you know?”

Victor smirked and nodded to the small steel sink in Greg’s cell. “Go drink some water.”

Greg moved quickly to the sink, happy to oblige. Happy, to do anything, really. Just…happy. He stuck his head under the tap and drank. “Why am I drinking, again?”

Victor crossed his legs, stretching them far in front of him. “Because if you don’t, you will dehydrate and die.”

“Right, yeah, right, of course” Greg nodded, and wiped the metallic-tasting water from his face. He turned to Victor with a grin. “I like your accent.”

“My accent?”

“Yeah. I like to listen to you talk. It makes me feel like I’m in a film.”

“They make films here.”

“Yeah, but they’re all shite. I mean,” Greg paced in front of his cellmate, his face expressive. “British movies are alright, but we don’t do blockbusters. You do blockbusters – ‘Star Wars’, ‘Terminator”, ‘Die Hard’ for fuck’s sake.”

Victor held two fingers into the air. “Two words for you, though: Charlie. Croker.”

“Ancient history.”

“Okay, three more words, then: James. Fucking. Bond. Enough said.”

“John McClane would wipe the floor with poncey Pierce Brosnan, and you know it.” Greg moaned. “Face it: we get all the sort of pretty Merchant Ivory, longing-on-an-estate crap and you get robots blowing up the world. Which would you rather watch, mate?”

Victor stood up and cracked his knuckles, speaking quicker than he normally would. “John McClane could take out Brosnan, I’ll give you that, but Sean Connery would knock them both the fuck out, in a heartbeat.”

“Sean Connery,” Greg said, and then attempted a crap imitation of the man. “’My name is Sean Connery…’” They both fell out laughing.

“That’s the worst impression I’ve ever heard.” Victor stood, laughing, and took a turn at his sink, head tilting to catch the spray. Greg watched him, fascinated by the play of muscles along the man’s neck and…suddenly, he realised, he was staring.

( _What the fuck, man?)_

He looked away, shook it off. _Drugs will do weird shit to you_ , he reminded himself – and played it off. “Oh-oh yeah? Like you can do any better…”

 “Nah, I don’t do Connery.” Victor said dismissively, drying his hands, and then reconsidered. “I mean, I _would_ do Connery. But I don’t _do_ Connery.”

Greg cut his eyes to Victor, sharply, a strained laugh on his lips. “What? You queer, mate?”

“Isn’t everybody?” The man shrugged, and looked up, spying a sturdy set of exposed pipes in the ceiling.

“I’m not.” Greg said, belligerently, and then immediately regretted his tone. Victor outweighed him by at least twenty pounds and while there was a sturdy row of prison bars between them, Greg didn’t doubt for a second that Victor would be resourceful enough to find his way around them, if pushed. Add to that the fact that they were both high as kites, and it would probably be best not to antagonize him…

 “Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t sweat it, Road Rash. I’m not gay,” Victor said, jumping to reach the pipe.

“You’re not?”

“Nope.”

“Then why do you want to fuck Connery?”

“Let’s just say that I…god _damnit_!” Victor strained to reach the pipe from the toilet seat, but came up short, and cussed as he fell.

“You what?” asked the other man.

Victor dusted off his hands. “Let’s just say that I keep my options open.”

 _Whatever that means..._ Greg thought, but at least the man had said he wasn’t a poof. Not that he’d ever known any poofs, to begin with. I mean, everyone had a limp-wristed uncle here and there, but no one his age. No one that admitted it, anyway. His crowd ran fast and hard, and it was all bikes and birds and gambling and crappy day jobs in garages, fixing rich fuckers’ Jaguars to fund the latest upgrades to their own rides. Gays weren’t in his orbit, because why would they be? They were…different.

He watched Victor climb up on top of the nearest concrete bench, and Greg squinted up at him. “What, exactly, is it that you are trying to do up there?

“I dunno.” He laughed, shaking out his arms. “Got all this energy.”

Greg watched the man stretch and wondered if he worked out, then wondered if it was weird that he just wondered if he worked out. “You’re never going reach it, mate…” he said, “…and even if you do, it’s not going to hold your weight.”

“Not gonna know until we try, right?” Victor said, and jumped again, this time from the concrete bench, only to fail again.

“Look, you’re going to break your arse if you keep doing that.” Greg laughed -- when without warning, out in the hallway, the outer door opened with a clang. Victor hopped down from his perch, turned his head to Greg and motioned to him to return to his bench. Quickly, silently, they both lay down on their blue mats and feigned sleep. As the officer passed their cell, Greg could feel the blood pounding in his ears, the moment oddly cinematic, thrilling. He held his breath…

The moment was over quickly, and when the outer door slammed shut, Victor sat up slowly. “Good job, Road Rash…”

“You know, we _are_ allowed to be awake.” Greg said, leaning back against the cell wall.

“Yeah, but if we’re awake, we could be asked questions. If we’re asked questions, we have the opportunity to fuck up. If we fuck up, it’s seven years in real prison and you, for one, would not last a damn day in the real nick, Road Rash.” 

Greg Lestrade took immediate offense, and stood up, approaching the bars that separated them. “Fuck off, you don’t think I could take it?”

“Nope.”

“Look, I’m not a kid, okay, I could handle myself.”

“You _think_ you could, everyone thinks they could, but come on, man. Those hands have never been in a fight.”

“Have so.”

Victor quickly moved back to their shared cell wall and grabbed one of Greg’s hands through the bars, flipping it over, palm up. “Softest of baby skin. Only callouses are from your bike grips.”

Greg flushed. He hadn’t been expecting physical contact. The Yank’s touch was startling, electric, his hands warm and confident and sure. It was just a moment, skin touching skin, and then it was over. Victor’s point made, he dropped Greg’s hand, seemingly oblivious to the impact his brief touch had made. He moved back to the sink for more water, and Greg was left wondering what the fuck just happened.

“You were right about that pipe.” Victor said contemplatively, looking up at the ceiling and wiping his mouth with his arm. “No way it would’ve held my weight.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Tension is building…!
> 
> \- [All I know about MDMA I learned online...](http://www.urban75.com/Drugs/e_guide.html)
> 
> \- This movie discussion is a loving reference to Eddie Izzard’s bit from “Dressed to Kill” about [British movies versus American movies…](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjC3R6jOtUo)
> 
> \- [Ten Reasons Why John McClane is the Ultimate Badass](http://www.buzzfeed.com/mikesharderlemonade/10-reasons-why-john-mcclane-is-the-ultimate-badass-8p2l)
> 
> \- ["...we get all the sort of pretty Merchant Ivory, longing-on-an-estate crap..."](https://cinemattire.files.wordpress.com/2014/03/m1.jpg)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you all next Sunday! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	5. 1:34am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The manliest of seductions begins with references to professional wrestling…

 

 

_“The peak effects of MDMA are felt 60 to 90 minutes after ingestion and last for two to four hours, followed by a gradual comedown.”_

_A Rough Guide to Ecstasy_

 

**1:34am**

“…but it really started with The Iron Sheik," Victor explained, his hands gesturing wildly as he sketched out the scene. "Opponent on the ground, other guy on his back, then the guy busts out a chinlock, basic Camel Clutch, right? But The Sheik was kind of old school, even then. The Steiner Brothers came up with a standing modification of the move years later, called it the 'Steiner Recliner’. That guy had an epic mullet…”

In the opposite cell, Greg couldn't hold in his laughter any longer. "Mate, you _do_ know professional wrestling is all fake, right?"

"That's what makes it such a beautiful thing!" Victor replied, excitedly. "Talk about American, right? A soap opera built around unapologetic violence, pretty girls, bad guys, good guys and fucking neon spandex, man, hideous and glorious!"

"You're mad!" Greg smiled, stubbing out his cigarette butt.

"Nah, I just grew up on this shit." Victor sat back to tighten the laces on his autographed boots. "My cousin actually used to wrestle with the WCW. Well, she played a valet at first, you know, the hot girl who pretends she's one of the fighter's girlfriends? Anyway, they eventually let her wrestle, with other girls. It was crazy. They train just as hard as the guys, they're just as badass, but the difference in size just makes it..." He looked up, laces tightened to his satisfaction, and groaned. "...Christ, Road Rash, your brain just spun out at the thought of girls wrestling girls, didn't it?"

"No, it stopped at the thought of _pretty_ girls wrestling each other, thank you very much." Greg corrected. "I mean, seeing girls fight is nothing new where I live, but pretty ones, in spandex? That's a different story."

"Is it really that easy, sport?"

"What?"

"To turn you on?" Victor grinned, thoroughly enjoying giving him shit.

Greg stopped, and held up a hand. “Yeah, we are not talking about that.”

"Oh, fuck, it really _is_ that easy!" The Yank crowed, victorious.

"Next topic!" Greg crossed his arms, his face pinking in a most appealing way.

Truth be told, Victor had been clocking Greg’s good looks from the moment he’d walked through the door. He wasn’t blind, for fuck’s sake – of course, neither was he oblivious to the fact that Greg was blindingly straight, or at least thought he was. What followed had nothing to do with his _wanting_ to fuck Greg, or _not_ wanting to fuck Greg, or even wanting to teach Greg a valuable lesson about the non-binary nature of human sexuality – definitely nothing as noble as that.

Long story short, what followed had everything to do with Victor getting bored and being high, all hopped up on seratonin and dopamine, that delectable cocktail of human happiness and goodwill.  Some might call the conversation a social experiment – and while Victor was a scientist (of sorts), he was less inclined to call this anything more than what it was: idle flirtation.

 "Why ‘next topic’? What harm could it possibly do? I mean…” Victor stretched his long legs out in front of him once more, crossing them at the ankle, arms up behind his head. “You’re straight, right?”

"Yes." Greg said, a little too quickly, his eyes following the long line of the man’s body.

"So…this is just conversation, right?" Victor remarked, with a careless shrug. "No harm in that, is there?”

Greg ran a hand through his hair, the conflicted nature of his thoughts playing out all over his face. He knew if he refused, the other man would assume he was a prude, or assume that he had something to hide. If he agreed, though… _well, fuck, he could always blame any inappropriate responses on the drugs, right?_

“I guess there’s no harm in it,” Greg said, slowly. “But you get a hard-on and this conversation is over, alright?”

“Deal,” Victor said, with a knowing smirk, banking that the other man would be the first to pop. “So, female wrestling turns you on…what else?”

Greg sat on his blue mat, with his knees curled under him, eyebrow raised. “What, you expect me just to _give_ you a list of my turn-ons? Like I’m some Playboy centerfold or something?”

“Well, only if you have a staple in your bellybutton, ” mused Victor.

“Oh, very funny, clever for an American, aren’t you?” Greg snarked back.

“That’s me,” the other man said, as if it were a given. “And you’re quite ill-mannered for a Brit -- but don’t be offended, I mean that as a compliment.”

Greg gave him a double-finger salute, backed by an irrepressible grin. He stood up to drink from the sink.

“So, what is it that you want? A guessing game?” Victor asked, while the other man drank.

Greg stepped back to his bunk. “How about just some Q&A?” he asked, stripping off his leather jacket and bunching it under his head as a pillow. “Like you ask me a question and I ask you one?”

“A little quid pro quo, yeah, I can do that…” Victor nodded. Greg wore a Blur T-shirt under his jacket, and Victor could just imagine him listening to “Song 2” in that tunnel. _You stupid, beautiful boy…_

“You go first, if we’re going to do this.” Greg said, stretching out on his bunk.

“Okay, easy one first.” Victor said, cigarette between his teeth. “You watch porn, then?”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I watch porn. We all do. My mate Mark used to work at a video store, he’s got this sick VHS collection, he shares it with all of us.”

Victor smiled through the smoke. “Do you watch the tapes together?”

“Not like that, we don’t,” Greg admonished, “and one question at a time, remember? My turn to ask you.”

Victor lifted a shoulder, in deference. “Sure. Do your worst.”

The other man rolled over onto his elbow, with a curious expression. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“In this cell? I told you, I was drunk in public.”

“No, I meant why are you in London.”

“Okay, not the question I was expecting. Hmm, why am I here? Business.” Victor said, and then reconsidered his answer. “Well, business and pleasure. I like London.”

Greg laughed knowingly. “I know what that means…”

Victor looked at him, amused. “Fine. I’ll bite, my turn for a question anyway: what _does_ it mean, Greg?”

“You’ve got a bird,” he said teasingly, and then awkwardly added, “…or a bloke or whatever.”

Victor shook his head, volunteering information. “Not a bird.”

“So it’s a bloke? So you really are gay?”

Victor made the sound of a losing game show buzzer. “One question at a time, wasn’t that the rule?”

Greg gritted his teeth, annoyed. “Fine. Is it a bloke?”

“He’s a friend,” Victor countered, and changed the subject. “My turn: last time you had sex, who came first? You or your partner?”

“That’s not a fair question!” Greg complained.

“I’d say that’s a question answered,” said Victor.

“Shut up, it’s harder with girls.” Greg countered.

“There are more than 8,000 sensory nerve endings in the clitoris, Road Rash,” the other man lectured. “I’d would’ve hoped you could’ve hit at least a few of them…or are you just a selfish lover?”

“I am not selfish!” Greg sat up, angry now.

“Oh, so you’re just inept?”

Greg stood up, rushed the prison bars that separated them. “Fuck off, Victor, I’m _neither_ , alright? And besides, that was two questions!” He snatched the pack of cigarettes that rested on the ledge, and lit one, aggressively wasting a match. “At least I’m getting some…if you’re gay, why don’t you fuck this ‘friend’ of yours?”

“Told you, I’m not gay...” Victor said, knowing Greg would never be able to process the dynamics of that particular situation _._ “Anyway, just because you’re attracted to a gender doesn’t mean you’re attracted to _everyone_ of that gender. There has to be a certain basic…compatibility. It’s the same way you can be ‘just friends’ with a girl.”

“I can’t be ‘just friends’ with girls.” Greg admitted.

“Oh, bullshit...”

“No, I pretty much want to fuck them, regardless.”

“Even the ugly ones?”

“Honestly?” he squinted. “Yeah, even them.”

Victor laughed, shaking his head. “I dunno what to tell you, man. It’s not like that with me.”

“Not really ‘keeping your options open’, then, are you?” Greg rolled back over onto his back and contemplated the ceiling. “So, I’m guessing your ‘friend’ is ugly, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Victor smirked, thinking of his Rabbit, “absolutely hideous.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’re all ever so patient!  
> (And never fear, smut starts next week! ;-p)
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- [This Chapter’s Follower Tease](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSbBvKaM6sk): The title of this fic is based on a lyric from Blur’s “Song 2” ( and I TOTALLY think of it as Greg Lestrade’s anthem now…). FWIW, it’s the only song I ever learned how to play on the guitar…
> 
> \- Wrestling stuff: [Top 10 Submission Holds of All Time](http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1622982-top-10-submission-holds-of-all-time/page/3) (Camel Clutch & Steiner Recliner) and [the Steiner Brothers (and Scott’s glorious mullet)](http://www.onlineworldofwrestling.com/bios/s/steiner-brothers/)
> 
> \- [Victor’s cousin “Daffney”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lg-riT5x9aQ) (full disclosure, I don’t know shit about wrestling, but the real “Daffney” was actually an acquaintance of mine before she went into wrestling and she’s a total badass!)
> 
> \- [“There are more than 8,000 sensory nerve endings in the clitoris…”](http://www.medicaldaily.com/female-anatomy-101-7-eye-opening-facts-about-clitoris-will-make-your-jaw-drop-302630) Yes, this is a fact. Pass it on!
> 
> \- Greg’s attitude about not being friends with women is an unapologetic ripoff from [When Harry Met Sally](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8oszx5OIMQ)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! For my American friends, I hope you had a fantastic Thanksgiving, and for the rest of you, I hope you’re having a fantastic weekend! I’ll see you all next Sunday! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	6. 1:46am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “100% Het? Not fucking likely.”

 

 

_“Everyday social defences are weakened and communicating with strangers is no longer taboo...”_

_A Rough Guide to Ecstasy_

**1:46am**

The outer door clanged shut, marking the end of the 1:45am patrol. 

Victor drew up his legs onto the bench, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "So...where were we?"

"Um...attraction," said Greg, because that's where they had, in fact, left things. The word felt thick on his tongue, but he refused linger on that particular thought for fear he’d start questioning why he’d agreed to this particular line of inquisition in the first place, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a prison cell, and - oh, lest we forget - in the middle of _tripping on X_. He sighed, and deliberately closed his eyes. 

"Of course," Victor said, knowing full well where things had been left, he'd just wanted to hear the word fall out of Greg's lush mouth, to see his reaction to saying it out loud. _I really should get arrested more often,_ the American thought, and resumed their conversation _._ "Attraction. Good word, describes everything from the force that moves atoms to rollercoasters to that thing, that magic, that drives us to look at another person and want to take off every last bit of their clothing and just _claim_ them..." 

Victor could hear Greg's breath hitch on that last bit – nothing dramatic, just a slight disruption in his regular pattern of breathing, he probably didn’t even notice - but it was enough, and he smiled to himself as he waited for Greg to say the only thing he could say in response: "What attracts you, then? What’s your type?" 

"What’s _your_ type?" Victor countered, flipping it back on him sharply, with a shrug, explaining, "Well, it _is_ my turn." 

Greg blushed, and he fumbled for an honest answer. "I dunno. I like…big boobs and short skirts," Greg said, and then paused, because while it was true, he _did_ like girls with big boobs and short skirts, it wasn't all he liked. 

“Well, sure. The entire American motion picture industry is counting on you and me to like those things, Road Rash,” Victor quipped, that then paused, quick to feel the weight of things unsaid. “Anything else?” 

Their eyes met across the empty space, and Greg stood, suddenly interested in retrieving the cigarette he’d stashed in the far corner of his cell. He took a drag, and with his back still turned to Victor, as if it were the most shameful thing he’d ever admitted in his life, and uttered one word. “Confidence.” 

“What?” 

“I…like confidence.” Greg swallowed hard and looked away, putting on his toughest face. 

Victor responded with a big barking laugh that would have woken up an entire cellblock. “Jesus, Greg, you say that like…I mean, you do know that it’s not a crime to like women for more than what they look like, right? God, if you could see the look on your face…” 

Greg slid his eyes back to Victor. “It’s just not the way you talk about girls.” 

“What? You can’t give them credit for being more than hot?” Victor shook his head. “You’ve been hanging around with a fucked-up crowd, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid, for fuck’s sake! We’re probably the same age!” Greg protested. 

“We probably are, and that’s a damn shame.” Victor stood and moved to the sink. “Now shut up and tell me about this confident girl.” 

The other man involuntarily smiled, and ran his fingers along a small rip in the knee of his jeans. "Her name’s Emma. She's a waitress at this place across from the garage, and she's cute. I mean, there are prettier girls in the world - prettier girls in the restaurant, even - but when she walks into the room, you can tell she's..." He paused, grasping for the word. "...on top of things, you know what I mean?" 

"She's capable?" Victor offered. 

"Yeah, exactly - like there's nothing she can't handle, you know? I mean, she's really nice, too, a total sweetheart to everyone, even the old geezers - but when she works, she has this look in her eyes, like she knows exactly what you need, like she's completely..." 

"... in control?" Victor finishes, putting the slightest hint of a question at the end. 

“Yes!” Greg nodded, enthusiastically, “Like she’s got it all together, no doubt, no wasted movement, and if anyone gives her shit, she just shuts it down quickly, but in a really sort of graceful way, you know?” 

“Sounds like my kind of girl,” Victor mused under his breath, and then moved to the sink and leaned against the edge. With his arms crossed, he slowly turned to Greg. “So, you’re attracted to confident, capable, controlling people.” 

The full measure of Greg’s enthusiasm in the previous moment eroded as soon as Victor said those words, as soon as he’d assumed that posture, as soon as it became immediately obvious to both men that all those words described Victor to a tee. Greg’s mind reeled until Victor spoke, quietly. 

“Breathe.” Victor directed, and so Greg did. 

“Now: new question,” he said, without moving from his position at the sink. “How do you respond when someone hits on you?” 

Greg didn’t even stop to dispute the fact that it was Victor’s second question, he just answered with an automatic, “No one. No one hits on me.” 

“Liar.” 

Greg exhaled, let out a small, nervous laugh. “Fine, yeah, okay, don’t know why I’m trying to be modest. I get hit on sometimes…I dunno. If she’s pretty, if she’s nice, I’ll give it a go.” 

“…and _he’_ s pretty? If _he’s_ nice?” Victor paused, and you could hear a pin drop. 

“That…doesn’t happen.” 

“It’s happening now.” Victor said, with a tilt of his head. “Isn’t it?” 

Greg was stunned, rocked by Victor’s direct advance, and for a moment he simply stared. He was, after all, a decent looking guy living in the 20th century – he knew he must’ve been hit on by the occasional bloke, but he’d always been able to explain it away – that guy wasn’t gay - the poor old fool was just confused, or blinding drunk, or any one of a million things that allowed Greg to excuse himself from the situation without ever even acknowledging it. Gays weren’t in his orbit, remember, so if he encountered any, they must not actually be gay, no sir. 

But, he couldn’t explain away Victor. 

“Oh, for chrissakes, Road Rash, don’t go offline.” Victor said, archly. “It’s just conversation, remember?” 

“But you _are_ hitting on me?” Greg blinked. 

“Of course -- hey, don’t let the light go out,” Victor said, nodding to the smoke in Greg’s hand, which had almost gone entirely to ash. He moved to the wall between them and pulled out one of the remaining cigarettes. “Come on, we’re down to our last match.” 

Greg eyed him cautiously, but moved to the wall. He leaned in, the cherry on his smoke not yet gone. Victor’s cigarette touched the tip of Greg’s and the fire caught. Victor squinted through the smoke, and Greg took a few steps back. 

“Do they really call it a Cigarette Kiss, or was that you flirting?” 

“Oh, I’d never lie about a kiss, Greg.” Victor answered, and then winked at him – actually winked - and moved back to his bunk. “Is it my turn?” 

Greg had barely had time to register the wink before Victor’s next words presented themselves, throwing him back into the spirit of the Q&A. “Wait, wait, wait – I think I’m owed at least a question or two before you go again, don’t you think?” 

Victor arched an eyebrow, a fair request. “Go on, then.” 

Greg ground the end of his cigarette beneath his heel and unconsciously mirrored Victor’s previous position at the sink. “I already asked you, but you ignored it. What’s your type?” 

In Victor’s cell, he exhaled a stream of blue smoke. “Isn’t it obvious, by now?” 

Greg spoke carefully. “I would just…like to hear you say it.” 

“Romantic, are you?” 

“Shut up,” Greg flushed again. “Just, bear with me. I’m…curious to hear what you’ll say.” 

“Romantic and curious, you’re getting more interesting by the second, Road Rash.” 

“Christ, you love to take the piss, don’t you?” Greg scrubbed his face with his hand. “Okay, fine: _pretty_ _please_ will you tell me what you find attractive?” 

“Well, for starters,” said Victor, cocking a smile in Greg’s direction. “I’m extremely attracted to people who say ‘please’.” 

Greg rolled his eyes, but smiled, nonetheless. Victor took that to be an excellent sign, and resumed his answer, stretching out on the bunk. As he did, Greg couldn’t help but notice that Victor’s awful blue polyester shirt had ridden upwards, revealing tanned skin and impressive stomach muscles that Greg knew he’d never have, even if he spent every day of his life in a gym. He held his breath, not sure if he _wanted_ Victor, or just wanted to _be_ him… 

“Let’s see,” Victor continued, seemingly oblivious to Greg’s gaze. “I like…fearlessness and cleverness, rebellion and perversity and badassery of all flavors.” He absently rubbed his hands over his thighs, adding, “I like kindness and impulse – intellect, too, and romance. I like people who live outside the lines, who maybe don’t do everything that’s expected of them, people who aren’t afraid to take a calculated risk…” 

Greg listened, and as he listened, he felt a rush, a charge up his spine, and he was pretty sure it wasn't due to the X. Victor had admitted he was openly hitting on him, so when Greg had asked his question, he'd expected predictable comments about eyes and hair color and height and build, boring statistics meant to compliment him, but instead he got this kickass list, the implication being that at least some of these applied to Greg, making Greg, himself, pretty kickass himself. It might’ve been bullshit, solely crafted to flatter, but it was really good bullshit. It wasn't that Greg wasn't used to compliments – it was just that he was used to different kinds of compliments, and Victor's made Greg feel...important. Different. Better. 

 _Not that any of this makes me gay_ , thought Greg. He could accept a compliment and not be gay, right? He could let Victor flirt and still be straight -  of course he could, he was just being polite, really, wasn't he? It was a unique situation, after all, being arrested and thrown in neighboring prison cells. So he could be drawn to the rhythm of the man's voice, to the drawl of his accent, he could admire his smile and the goofy way he got excited about fake wrestling and appreciate the work it must've taken for him to get arms like that and still be heterosexual, right? 

"I can hear you thinking from here, Greg."

"Sorry," apologized Greg. 

"Recognize yourself in that list?" Victor asked, and rolled over onto his side, to face him. 

"You got me blushing, alright." Greg admitted, and he suddenly recalled a scene he saw in a movie once... 

"That's good," soothed Victor. "Real good, Road Rash." 

And Victor meant it. He’d found himself becoming increasingly charmed by this man. His naïveté was endearing, and with good looks to boot, Greg was his own brand of appealing. The fact that he liked being around controlling people was just icing on the cake, really. The fact that he had been so embarrassed by that reveal (and yet, Victor was convinced, still didn't really understand how revealing it had actually been), well, fuck, that was just...Victor felt his cock surge.

This was no longer just idle flirtation. 

There were, of course, two immediate, possibly immovable, problems that came with this revelation: first, they were still in prison, separated by thick, metal bars, and second, Greg was still (presumably) straight. Perhaps those points should be placed in the opposite order, by importance, but Victor was fucked - or rather, not fucked - either way. 

He decided to tackle the latter problem first. 

The trick was, to sort out that tricky little "presumably". Victor had zero interest in men who were actually 100% straight, because what was the point? The question was, then, was Road Rash 100%? Victor wasn't so sure. His willingness to play the Q&A game showed some signs of potential curiosity, and Victor was pretty sure the man had checked him out at least a few times over the course of the night. 

He could confirm that, easily enough… 

Greg had been talking for awhile, telling a story about some character in some movie, but Victor had tuned out of the first part, too lost in his own “is-he or isn’t-he” thoughts to focus. He’d made appropriate noises, as if he had been listening, and then he made a show of standing up, stretching and getting a drink of water. Standing in front of the bars, cigarette loosely dangling in his mouth, Victor stared at Greg and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. 

At first, Greg didn’t notice. 

"...and the thing was, they wanted to go back to their home planet, and they had these really cheesy laser guns, and..." Greg lifted his eyes, registered what Victor was doing, and all the words...just..,stopped. 

Greg gaped. Blushed. Stammered. _Christ...men didn't look like that in real life. Only in action movies, with torn vests and machine guns._ He forced himself to look away. “Bloody hell, Victor…” 

“What? Can’t a man take off his shirt?” Victor asked, all innocence and light, and smiled to himself. 100% Het? Not fucking likely. "Go on, man – something about…cheesy laser guns?" 

Eventually, Greg found his voice. "Right. I mean…well yeah, so, the thing is, it was a crap movie, and the guy was dressed like a girl, but the point is, he had sex with both Brad and Janet, so he's like you, minus the lingerie, I guess, and I've been thin-" 

"Wait, are you talking about 'Rocky Horror'?" interrupted Victor, finally putting the pieces together. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“On what planet would you watch the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’?” Victor marveled. 

“Her name was Claire, she wore a lot of eye makeup and she had remarkable breasts. Plus, she put out. Next question?” Greg said, matter-of-factly. 

Victor nodded. “Yep, that’d do it.” 

“Well, so anyway,” Greg continued. "I’ve been thinking. You saw the movie, right?" 

"Well, yeah." 

"Do you think Brad and Janet still got married, after the aliens left?" 

Victor shot him a quizzical smile. "I-I don't know. I mean...sure. Why not? Probably had a kicking sex life, too. Why are we even talking about this?" 

"Because I know I'm not gay, Victor," Greg said levelly, sitting up, arms wrapped around his knees. "And my options are not as open as yours. But they...might be as open as Brad's." 

Victor's turn to gape and blush and stammer. That little shit... "You...I mean...really?" 

“One night only,” Greg answered, extending a finger in front of him. He stood up and walked towards the barred wall. “In the morning we go our separate ways, and that will be that.” 

“Oh, fuck off, now you’re the one taking the piss,” said Victor, with a dubious laugh. “Are you serious?” 

"As a heart attack, mate," Greg nodded, with a grin. "And if you'd been listening to me instead of doing your little strip tease there, we might've gotten to this point a little quicker." 

Victor shook his head, and gripped the bars. "Unbelievable, kid..." 

"I'm not a kid," said Greg, reflexively, and he checked his watch. "Now, We've got five minutes before the next patrol. Any ideas for how we might pass that time?"

 

*****

 

It was quiet, and for a long moment, they just stared at each other, from either side of the bars. 

“You alright?” 

“Yeah, I think so. Nervous.” 

“Baby steps. We’ve got all night.” 

“Only four minutes until the patrol, though,” 

“Then there’s no time to lose.” Victor said, quietly, gripping the vertical bars between them. “Come here.” 

Greg moved closer, so close Victor could see the blush rising in his cheeks. This motorcycle hooligan, this gear monkey, this rough-and-tumble racer, now seemed so suddenly demure before him, it made Victor’s pulse race. “Tell me something?” 

“Yes?” 

“Were you serious about that waitress? About liking the fact that she took control?” 

“Yes. I mean,” Greg paused, trying and ultimately failing to find a way to put it into words. “Yes. I like that.” 

“What do you know about Power Exchange?” 

“Power what?” 

Victor smiled and shook his head. “Never mind, Road Rash, just follow my lead, okay?” 

“Gladly.” Greg said, and then sighed a breathy, shuddering sigh. That’s when Victor reached his hand between the bars and pulled Greg’s head to his, their lips meeting in the empty spaces, resulting in an unexpectedly gentle kiss. 

Victor was the first to break away. “Weird?” He asked, genuinely curious to hear his reaction. 

“No,” Greg said, thoughtfully. “Just different. And stubble.” 

“Ah, yeah. Sorry. Should have warned you.” Victor said, rubbing his own cheek. “Want more?” 

“Hell, yes,” said Greg, and this time, his was the first hand to snake through the bars. It tangled in Victor’s shoulder-length hair and pressed the Yank’s mouth against his own. Victor responded with a series of nips and licks designed to reclaim control of the kiss and put the eager biker boy in his place. This time, Victor was less cautious, less reserved, and less afraid of spooking the straight – and when Victor pulled away again, Greg couldn’t help but whimper. 

“Don’t stop.” 

“Have to,” Victor murmured. “Time’s running out.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“So belligerent,” Victor teased. “This could be fun. I like naughty boys.” 

“Jesus, Victor,” Greg said, forehead pressed against the bars. “Don’t…say things like that.”

“Are you telling me what I can and cannot say?” 

“No, no…fuck…it’s not like that,” Delicious, the way he responded to a simple threatening tone. “ I…it’s just you’re making me…” 

“Oh, you _are_ fun,” mused Victor. “How much time is left?” 

“A minute or so, if they’re on time?” 

Victor sought out the Greg’s hand, and laced their fingers together through the bars. “Time for one more, alright, but the minute that door opens, and I mean the minute you hear that fucker clang, we stop, we go back to our bunks, and we pretend to sleep, got it?” 

“Bit bossy, aren't you? ” Greg snarked, and then it was the Brit’s turn to wink. 

“Oh, you are such a little shit…” Victor laughed, and reached in-between the bars with both hands, grabbing both sides of Greg’s face and giving him the kind of kiss you’re lucky if you get once in a lifetime, the kind of kiss that makes you forget to breathe, that weakens knees and makes hearts pound. It was a kiss that single-handedly produced more seratonin than all the ecstasy in Victor’s pocket, and it was a kiss that very nearly made them miss the noisy clanging of the outer door...

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> So, this one turned out more sweet than smutty. That won’t last long…
> 
> End notes are surprisingly sparse this week!
> 
>  
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease: [The good Dr.](http://artvallejo.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Rocky-Horror-Picture-Show-tim-curry-35391244-1200-1680.jpg), natch…and reminder: [blue is for assholes](http://rhps.teamone.de/brad-bedroom.jpg) (not that Greg is an asshole…)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Sorry this one posted so late this afternoon. I kept going back and forth on what happened during their “five-minutes” encounter at the end and ended up writing it three times (with varying degrees of smut)! 
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments, it’s truly sad how much they make my day! 
> 
>  
> 
> I’ll see you all next Sunday! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	7. 2:00am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summaries give away all the surprises. This one doesn’t.

 

 

_“Ecstasy users…had higher levels of impulsivity, venturesomeness and novelty seeking behaviour compared with non-drug users.”_

_[US National Library of Medicine and National Institutes of Health (via PubMed.gov)](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/15380289) _

 

**2:00am**

Officers Eddie and Dave were prompt with their patrols, even if they weren’t particularly observant during them. They can’t be faulted for missing the scurrying of the boys back to their bunks – that noise was wholly obscured by the screeching of the door’s hinges, followed immediately by the metal-on-metal clang of the door slamming closed behind them – but they probably should have noted the fresh smell of cigarette smoke, and the continuing presence of water droplets in both of the inmate’s sinks, and if they’d been really keen detectives, they would have noticed that at least one of the “sleeping” prisoners was currently battling a raging hard-on –but at the moment, they had more on their minds than a simple walk-through.

“Oi, Boozer!” Dave called out, as Eddie rattled the bars with his baton, just to ensure that the prisoner would wake. “Congratulations, you’ve made bail.”

Victor slowly stood up, tossed his hair back, and put his shirt back on. Greg sat up on his bunk, happy for Victor, he supposed, but at the same time, he was disappointed that whatever…this…had been was ending so quickly, and so abruptly. Victor paused on his way out, catching Greg’s eye and giving him a reassuring smile.

“Come on, we haven’t got all day,” Eddie said, irritably. “Move much slower, I’ll think you _want_ to stay in custody!”

Victor headed through the open door and glanced back. “See you around, Road Rash,” he said, and that was all.

Greg stood and watched the three of them walk down the hallway, disappear through the noisy outer door…

…and just like that, Greg was alone.

 

*****

 

**2:03am**

He drank water.

He tried to go back to sleep.

He half-heartedly masturbated, but it didn’t go anywhere. It felt weird to masturbate while thinking of a man, and pathetic to do so over a man that, odds were, he’d never see again. And dammit, he’d genuinely liked that crazy Yank, nevermind about the kissing (no, seriously, _nevermind about the kissing_ ), he could’ve at least gotten the bloke’s last name.

 _Then again, not like it was going to go anywhere_ , he reminded himself. _One night only, remember?_

He did a few push-ups.

He ground his teeth.

He smoked.

The 2:15 patrol came and went, with Greg feigning sleep as before. The door slammed shut.

Victor had left behind his cigarettes, and so Greg lit one, and struck the last remaining match. He figured he’d chainsmoke the rest of the pack for the rest of the night, to keep the flame going, until the pack was gone. Well, it was one way to pass the time…

…and just as he had settled in for the long, lonely haul until morning, Greg Lestrade’s night took an unexpected turn...

 

*****

 

**2:19am**

The outer door burst open with surprisingly little noise and Greg checked his watch, getting to his feet the moment he realized that the running figure in the hallway was Victor, and that he was alone.

“Get up, get your coat,” Victor said quickly, quietly, and with urgency, gripping something small and metal in his hand.

“Thought you were gone,” Greg said, trying his best to conceal the half-smile on his face. “ Thought you’d made bail.”

“I did too,” Victor said hurriedly, “But, it turns out, my friend’s pickpocketing skills are better than his money-management skills.” He placed the metal object into the keyhole on Greg’s cell door and turned the lock.

Greg’s eyes went wide. “Bloody hell, he pickpocketed the key?”

“Yes, and time’s wasting, his other parlor trick can only last for so long,” Victor chided. “Come on, ‘mate’ - it’s poor form to loiter during a jailbreak.”

Greg grabbed his jacket, astounded. “A jailbreak? Is that what this is?”

“Yeah,” Victor grinned, “And ain’t it fun?”

 

*****

 

**2:21am**

They slipped out through the now nearly-silent door and into the hallway. Greg didn’t know why he’d chosen to blindly follow the American, why he agreed to potentially damn himself _and_ his father with a reckless prison escape, except that it felt _right_ , it felt _fun_ , and it felt like something that would happen in a film. This is exactly what would happen in a Hollywood blockbuster, because in movies, real movies, action movies, characters didn’t think, they just DID. This was Greg DOing without thinking and while no doubt he’d pay for it sometime in the future, for now, it felt fanfuckingtastic.

When they reached the hallway, Victor headed for the main entrance, but Greg grabbed his arm, shook his head and turned him in the other direction. “Front entrance is monitored, but smokers always leave the side entrance ajar.”

Getting to the side entrance required traversing a four-foot stretch of hallway that ran past the precinct room, the very room where the entirety of the on-duty police force, (minus the entrance guards) were gathered around one figure: a very tall, very thin young man in a black wool coat. He seemed to have them all entranced in some sort of performance, and stood with his back to the door –which meant that every officer in the joint was facing that critical four-foot stretch of hallway. Victor cussed under his breath, pulled both he and Greg flat against the wall, and removed a mobile from his pocket. He snapped the antenna open.

“Oh, sure, by all means, take time for a phone call!” Greg whispered, sarcastically.

“Shut up.” Victor pressed some buttons, and like a magic trick, a phone chirped in the precinct room – a phone owned by the thin young man in the wool coat. He looked at the screen, and directed his audience’s attention to an officer standing in the furthest corner of the room, directed their attention up and away from the four-foot stretch of hallway that stood between the escapees and their freedom.

Victor and Greg moved quickly and quietly to the exit.

“Did you just –“

“Yes.”

“And he just—“

“Yes.”

“Where’d you ge—“

“Talkative little shit, aren’t you?” Victor said, and kissed him quick as they pushed through the unmanned side entrance. “Just tell me you’ve got your keys.”

“My keys?”

“Yeah,” the American explained, “We’re gonna need a fast ride.”

 

*****

 

**2:25am**

“Holy shit, Road Rash, I think I’m in love.”

The two men stood outside the chain link fence that held impounded vehicles, and Greg’s uncle’s vintage motorcycle, while somewhat bent and scraped from the crash, hadn’t lost one bit of its charm.

“The 1969 Velocette Venom Thruxton,” Greg recited reverently, “featuring a 499 cc overhead-valve, single-cylinder engine. It set the 24-hour world record, the first motorcycle to achieve an average speed of over 100 miles per hour for 24 hours. Nearly 40 years later, no motorcycle of the same capacity has ever beaten its record.” He exhaled, and it sounded like a sigh. For a moment, both men forgot that they were in the middle of a prison escape.

They broke out of their mutual reverie when a police car siren sounded out on the street – a siren that, happily, was meant for someone else.

“Right,” said Victor, back to the task at hand. “You go over the fence, I’ll pick the lock at the gate.”

“Over the fence?” Greg said, with no small bit of panic, looking up.

“Come on, badass,” Victor urged, “McClane wouldn’t let a fence stop him. Up and over. Meet you at the gate.”

Victor ran to the gate and Greg checked his watch. Five minutes until they were missed, assuming the patrol was spot-on time. No time to lose, no time to tell himself the million reasons why there was no chance he’d make it over, and so, instead, he just backed up, exhaled deeply and ran like hell toward the fence.

 

*****

 

**2:28am**

Greg gunned the bike to life and swerved over to where Victor stood, unthreading the chain through the lock, and smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

“Told you you’d make it.”

Swell of pride, killed by a glance at his watch. “Two minutes, Victor – get the fuck on the bike!”

“Oh, who’s bossy now, hmm?”

Until the moment Victor sat down behind him on the bike, Greg hadn’t actually thought through what two of them on the same bike would feel like, his mind instead occupied, as it had been, with breaking out of jail and sneaking down hallways and jumping fences. But in that moment, when Victor slid into the seat behind him, all of those other concerns fell away and left behind a series of singular thoughts, such as: _that’s an erection_ , and _that’s **Victor’s** erection_ and _oh my god it’s pressed hard against my arse_.

“Greg, are you listening to me?”

“Huh? Yeah.”

“26 Denmark Street, in Soho.” Victor leaned forward into Greg’s ear, simultaneously pressing harder against him. “And step on it, kid.”

And with that, Greg peeled out of the impound lot and swerved into the street, filtering around traffic, like a boss…

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Talk about an unexpected turn! Seriously big ups to [a-cumberbatch-of-cookies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tishy19/pseuds/a-cumberbatch-of-cookies) for calling the move out of the prison last week – you’re a damn psychic (or, you know, an experienced Beta who’s well-versed in story pacing, you know, samey-same)! ;-p
> 
>  
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease: [Who needs an iPhone?](https://www.iretron.com/uploads/product/picture/Motorola_StarTAC_3000.jpg) The Motorola StarTAC was [the must-have gadget of the 1990s.](https://medium.com/people-gadgets/the-gadget-we-miss-the-motorola-startac-9bc12db9eedb)
> 
> \- In a related note, yes, [people have really been texting for that long](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2241743/Text-messages-mark-20-year-anniversary-overtaken-Twitter-instant-messaging.html). 
> 
> \- Jailbreak! [Here’s a list of historically famous prison escapes](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_prison_escapes), presented for your amusement.
> 
> \- _“Get up, get your coat”_ \- This is what [Greg’s leathers](http://images.motorcycle-usa.com/PhotoGallerys/967-BKRD.jpg) look like (the coat, anyway). While we’re on the topic, [here’s the coat that young Sherlock wore](http://shop.nordstrom.com/s/jack-spade-clermont-wool-blend-peacoat/3831109?origin=category-personalizedsort&contextualcategoryid=0&fashionColor=&resultback=7717&cm_sp=personalizedsort-_-browseresults-_-1_22_D), pre-Belstaff.
> 
> \- [More Velocette Venom Thruxton porn](http://megadeluxe.com/motorcycles/the-last-great-velo-1969-velocette-thruxton-bonhams). Someone should buy me this motorcycle for Christmas. BTW, technically, it was the _1961_ Velocette that set the world record, but the 1969 Venom is just so sexy…
> 
> \- _“26 Denmark Street, in Soho”_ – Hey “Rabbit” readers: anyone know where the boys are headed?
> 
>  
> 
> You guys rock so much -- thank you for reading and for your notes to my Tumblr and your comments here on AO3! I know this is a wild rare-pair, and your support is fucking awesome! See you all next Sunday! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	8. 3:07am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Greg visit a familiar venue and (finally) some smut!

 

 

_“The…sense of connectedness with other people may lead to individuals becoming willing to participate in illegal activities”.”_

["Molly: The Not-So-Sweet Girl Next Door"](http://newlifehouse.com/molly-not-the-sweet-girl-next-door/)

 

**3:07am**

_…and suddenly, they were all hands and arms and lips, hips grinding in time with the thump of bass from the stage, a sound that was felt just as strongly as it was heard, the beat driving, relentless, hard and hypnotic. It vibrated through the wall, through the floor, through the worn cushions of the couch, and Greg knew this because he’d felt it first-hand, as he was first pressed against the wall, then knocked to the floor, and finally pushed onto the couch. And it didn’t feel good, it felt wrong, and in feeling wrong it felt amazing, and by amazing, he meant completely fucking mind-blowing…_

*****

**2:58am**

The ride from the precinct had been fast and loud, full of showy hairpin turns and unnecessary risks. It had, after all, been a getaway, and Greg reasoned it an excellent excuse to show off, to make Victor lean and gasp in his ear, to grasp onto his waist and to press even harder against him. After all, “Road Rash” had to live up to his name, didn’t he?

They pulled up to the kerb at 26 Denmark Street, adrenaline pumping, breathless, serotonin still flowing, from the ride, from the X, from the feel of each others’ bodies, tight and close – and from the outside, the 12 Bar Club didn’t look like much, but when the door opened, inside, the party was in full swing. Victor grinned at Greg and pulled him inside, the air warm and smoky, the band on-stage playing for the crowd, fast and furious. Just getting to the bar required persistence, fearlessness and no small amount of charm -- all traits, Greg realized, that Victor had in spades.

*****

**3:12am**

_…he’d started with Greg’s zipper, which was all the way wrong, Greg had thought – everyone knows you start with the shirt and work your way down, but the man’s hands had started with his zipper, fingers pressing flat against his jeans, through the denim, and fuck, this shouldn’t feel any better than it did when a girl did it, should it? Except it did, maybe because Victor’s hands were big, or because they were sure, or because they didn’t hesitate. Whatever the reason, Greg whimpered at the touch, and quickly chose to follow the other man’s lead – because if Victor could start with the zipper, then fuck it, so could he…_

*****

**3:01am**

 “Where’s Anton?” Victor shouted over the music.

The bartender, a leggy blonde in impossibly tight jeans, rolled her eyes. “Girl trouble. I’m watching the bar while he chases Marie.”

“How much longer is their set?” he asked, and nodded to the band on the stage.

“Another twenty minutes? Maybe 25?” The bartender spun three bottles onto the bar top and placed them in front of her nearest customer, suddenly noticing Greg and eyeing him with interest.

“Excellent,” Victor said, definitively. “Call Anton. Tell him to apologize to Marie and tell him that if he’s not here in twenty minutes, I’m going to break into his bloody safe.”

The blonde sighed in irritation, but picked up the phone. Victor reached over the bar and grabbed two beers from the ice bath as she eyed him with disapproval. “Don’t give me that look, Princess, just put ‘em on my tab, alright?” He kissed her on her nose and whispered. “By the way, the Green Room’s mine for the next twenty…and so is the biker, so hands off. ”

*****

**3:14am**

_…hands, both their hands on both their cocks and fuck, the feel of them against each other felt illicit, felt criminal, the way it had when Victor locked the door behind them, trapping them in this windowless room, one way in, same way out, one door, another prison cell, but this time, it was one they shared. Greg was hardly being held against his will, but the thought of it, the fantasy of it thrilled him, secretly. He threw his head back, eyes focusing on the graffiti, the band autographs and rude scribblings from twenty years of rock and roll that covered the walls, but when Victor’s mouth closed over the head of his cock, he closed his eyes, shutting himself off from anything other than this gorgeous sensation…_

*****

**3:21am**

 “You threaten to break into my bloody safe?” Anton shook his head, indignant, the bounce of his shoulder-length dreadlocks punctuating his words. 

“You doubt that I could?” Victor asked, equally indignant.

“No, I was just wondering why you gave me twenty minutes,” Anton said, giving Greg the side-eye. “I should have known.”

“This is an actual, emergency, Anton,” Victor replied earnestly. “I need my passport.”

Anton arched his eyebrow. “You need your passport?”

“Wh-why do you need your passport?” Greg asked with alarm, suddenly surfacing.

Victor threw him his coat. “Greg and I sort of…broke out of prison this evening and we’ve got to get out of the country. We need our passports to get through customs.”

Greg paused as he slipped into his coat. “Wait – who said anything about getting out of the country?”

“Won’t they have already reported you missing?” Anton asked, panic rising. “Jesus, they could have tracked you here, Victor, to my bar! What the fuck?!”

“First, they won’t be able to track us for another several hours.” Victor explained. “That mutual friend of ours bought Greg and I some time.”

“If it’s the same ‘mutual friend’ I’m thinking of, I wouldn’t trust him, these days, to buy me so much as a beer.” Anton grumbled. “He’s developing quite the habit, or have you even noticed?”

“Second, “ Victor countered loudly, speaking over him, refusing to engage. “Greg and I will be out of your illustrious hair as soon as you give me my passport, amigo, I promise.”

*****

**3:16am**

_...Victor’s lips, tongue, mouth, soft palate, his fucking throat were united in a conspiracy to wreck and destroy Greg Lestrade in one sweet swallow – and Greg struggled to maintain just the smallest shred of composure. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – cum this quickly, but at that point he didn’t realize just how dogged Victor could be in taking control, in shattering resolve and smashing defenses, in taking men like him utterly and completely down. When Greg did inevitably surrender, his hands scrabbling against the cushions, his voice reduced to nothing but a low, husky rumble, Victor showed no mercy, swallowing against his cock, kneading his sack with a persistent, rhythm that left him no choice, no chance, no option other than to cum on this couch and thank the moon and the fucking stars for him getting arrested and being placed in a cell beside this brilliant man…_

*****

**3:23am**

The band had finished their set and began to filter into the Green Room when Anton went to get Victor’s passport out of the safe, so Victor and Greg waited in the hallway.

“When, exactly, were you going to tell me we were leaving the bloody country?” Greg asked, angrily.

Victor shrugged. “Thought it was obvious, Road Rash. They’ll be after us, as soon as they fix my friend’s little bit of mayhem.”

“What did he do?”

“I dunno,” Victor murmured, and pressed his knee indecently between Greg’s thighs, backing him against the wall of this narrow, dark hallway. “I don’t care. So long as he gets you and I safely to Calais.”

Greg shivered, the feel of the other man’s breath against his neck. “Calais?”

“Of course,”  he drawled, and kissing and biting points along Greg’s collarbone. “London to Folkestone, Folkestone to Calais, then 237 miles north to Amsterdam.”

“Holland? Tonight? You’re mad, mate.”

“Look, you said the your bike could go a hundred miles an hour, for hours and hours, right?” Victor’s face against his cheek, speaking quietly into his ear.

Greg nodded, mesmerized by his closeness.

“If it’s as fast as you say, then we could be safe as kittens in the Netherlands, eating shwarma, drinking Heineken and lounging around in a houseboat, possibly before the sun rises.” Victor kissed him slowly and deliberately, before pulling back with a smile.

"So, what do you say, Greg? Are you in?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About fucking time for a bit smut, I know! Another trip inside 12 Bar, and this time, no one even visited the balcony!
> 
> Hopefully the time swings weren't too disorienting for anyone -- what can I say, I loved "Pulp Fiction"... 
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease: [26 Denmark Street,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPiWjIRTw2Y&index=59&list=PL_yPTtixt630gnLs27c01YvyKlx5OKA3s). Go [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtHSJ9xVjaA&index=119&list=PL_yPTtixt630gnLs27c01YvyKlx5OKA3s) to see clips of 12 Bar concerts over the years…
> 
> \- [I’m all about the bass, ‘bout that bass (no treble)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=THUMdTohWkI)
> 
> \- _“…eyes focusing on the graffiti, the band autographs and rude scribblings from twenty years of rock and roll that covered the walls…”_ \- This line may or may not be a reference to the Green Room at [the old Marquee Club on Wardour Street, circa 1988… ](http://londondestruction.angelfire.com/photos6/marquee01.jpg)(but I’ll never tell!)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting and being supportive as hell!  
> UPDATE: Chapter 9 will post on Sunday, January 4. 2015 (if I spend the weekend after Christmas writing, I think my fam will disown me) ;-) See you then!  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	9. 3:24am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Greg hit the road...

“In general, MDMA did not affect driving performance... _”_

_[MDMA (ecstasy) effects on actual driving performance](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21952668) _

 

**3:24am**

_"So, what do you say, Greg? Are you in?”_

The Ton.

100 miles per hour.

69 miles of asphalt between London and Folkestone.

237 miles between Calais and Amsterdam.

Greg had never hit The Ton in London. There’d been just too much traffic and not enough straightaways in the City. He’d always known he’d have a better chance of hitting it on the motorways outside London, but if he got caught, it would mean hundreds of pounds in fines and potentially a driving ban – and that, he couldn’t risk. He’d been afraid of the risk of getting caught, of getting in trouble.

Of course now, he was _already_ in trouble, trouble that was way more serious than a simple speeding ticket, trouble that could result in them locking him up and throwing away the key. He’d broken out of prison, for fuck’s sake – and he realised that this insane ride that Victor was suggesting might very well be his last ride for a long, long time.

In that hallway at 12 Bar, Greg realised that he literally had nothing left to lose.

So, when Victor smiled in his direction, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a bar, in the middle of a snog and invited him to the ride of his lifetime, Greg only had one answer for him:

“Fucking right, I’m in…”

*****

**3:48am**

Greg’s flat was in one of the dodgier sections of Finsbury Park (and this was back when most of Finsbury Park was dodgy, so that’s saying a lot). He shared it with two of his mates (notably _, not_ Mark-of-the-sick-VHS-collection), and when Greg and Victor arrived at the flat to pick up Greg’s passport, they found one of his flatmates on the couch, playing Grand Theft Auto, with more than a few Newcastle empties at his feet. 

“Paul, where’s Nick?” Greg rushed through the house, opening and closing drawers, stashing things as he moved into a backpack.

“At Mel’s.” Paul said, his eyes on the game. It wasn’t until Victor cleared his throat that he looked up from the screen. He looked suspiciously at the rather tall man and turned to Greg, narrowing his eyes. “Why? Where have you been?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.“ Greg said, and nipped down the hall, presumably to his bedroom.

Victor moved slowly to the opposite end of the couch and sat down with Paul.  “Hi,” he said, with a friendly nod.

Paul furrowed his brow. “Hello,” he said, and reached for the controller.

Victor watched him play for a few moments and then said, confidentially, “Gouranga.”

“Excuse me?” Greg’s flatmate asked, not knowing what to think of their unexplained visitor.

“Gouranga.” Victor nodded definitively at the game console. “Easter Egg. You get the ‘Gouranga’ bonus if you run over a pack of Hare Krishnas.” he said.

“No shit?”

“No shit.” Victor laughed. “Pretty fucked up, but that’s GTA. It scores a lot of points.”

Greg moved back into the room, and threw a spare helmet into Victor’s lap. “Ready?”

Victor turned the helmet over in his hands and stood up. “Let’s hit it.”

Paul looked up at Greg. “Where are you going? And who is this Yank?”

Greg held up his hands. “Paul, for your sake and mine, I was never here.”

“What? Greg, are you high?”

“Oh,” Greg pointed to Victor, “And he was never here, either.”

“Dude, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Greg said, seriously, “That if anyone asks, _we were never here_.”

Paul squinted at Greg for a moment, and then shook his head. “Okay, you _are_ high. Look, don’t fuck up your Uncle's bike, though, okay? We just replaced the compression plates!”

Greg barked out a laugh and then gave a sincere nod. “Right, of course. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Paul picked up the game controller. “Hey, “ he said, shouting after them as they headed out the door. “We’re out of beer. Pick some up on your way back?”

 

*****

**3:56am**

“Well, that was fun,” Victor said, standing on the kerb, watching Greg secure his bag to the bike. “You think we can really hit 100?”

“Presuming we can, we’ll be at Folkestone in 41 minutes,” Greg said. “But it might be tricky.  With a second person on the bike, and the weight of my pack, we’ll just have to see. That said, there’s still room for another bag if you want to swing by your place?”

“Nah, not much worth grabbing. Besides, time’s getting short. They have stores in Holland.”

Greg nodded, and exhaled loudly, trying to calm his nerves. “This is crazy.”

Victor edged closer to him, his hands shoved in his pocket. “Want to call it off?”

“We can’t,” Greg insisted. “Your friend bought us a window of time to get out of the country. We’ve got to get out now, or never!”

“Escaping the police, yeah. But that’s not the only reason you agreed to this, is it?” Victor asked, and watched Greg’s eyes flicker up to the fourth floor window of his flat.

“No.” Greg admitted, blushing. “There are…several…reasons.”

“Flatterer,” accused Victor, and then subtly ran a finger around Greg’s wrist. “But you can’t fool me. I know the main reason.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, ” Victor teased. “100 miles an hour…”

“…for hours and hours.” Greg said dreamily, finishing Victor’s sentence. A second quick look up to the window and his fingers hooked into the belt loops on Victor’s jeans, pulling him in tight, and he kissed him, fast and hard, leaving them both breathless. He pulled back and brushed his lips against the other man’s ear, whispering:

“Come on: let’s go get The Ton.”

 

*****

**5:20am**

Greg put the bike in park and ripped off his helmet, angrily. “Fuck wank bugger shitting arse head and hole!”

Victor stood, removed his helmet and immediately apologized to the Channel Tunnel agent who stood beside the bike, bewildered in her orange vest. “Please forgive him, he’s…well, rude as a rule.” Victor glanced at the bikers lined up in front of them and behind them, and then at Greg, who was pacing down the length of the car. He engaged the agent once more with a winning smile. “Sorry, is there, uh, anything we need to show you? Any paperwork, or…?”

She shot him a tight smile. “No sir, customs processes on the French side of the tunnel. Just sit tight here with the bike parked. Travel time is approximately 35 minutes.” She gave him a confidential look. “But he’ll need to get his temper in check before customs, yeah?”

“Absolutely, thanks. Sorry again!” Victor said, and hung his helmet off the handlebars before going to retrieve his driver from the far corner of the shuttle.

“What. The Fuck. Was that, Greg?”

“One hour and twenty four minutes!” Greg hissed. “It took one bloody hour and twenty-four minutes to go 69 miles!”

“You hit The Ton!”

“For all of 21 miles, Victor!” Greg rubbed his hand through his hair in frustration. “We should be in France right now, well on our way to Amsterdam!”

Victor edged him back against the rail, his voice low and steady so as not to attract any further attention. “Look, you need to get your shit together. Yes, we ran into traffic, yes we are running behind, and no, you didn’t get to drive as fast as you wanted for as long as you wanted.”

Greg bit his tongue, looked stubbornly out the window of the shuttle into the inside of the tunnel. “It’s not that.”

“It is that.”

“No, it isn’t.” Greg snapped off his gloves and moved closer to Victor. “I’m worried that we’ve missed our window, and if we go to prison because of bloody _traffic,_ I swear I will…”

“Hey, hey - ix-nay on the ison-pray alk-tay, savvy?” Victor said, emphatically, tongue firmly in cheek, trying to add levity to a stressful time. There weren’t many other bikers on the shuttle at this hour of the morning, but there were others, and he’d rather they not associate the two of them with the word “prison”. “We’ll just have to, you know, keep our cool in France. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

 “You think?”

“Yeah. I have faith.”

“Your friend is that good?” Greg asked.

 “Yes. And, more importantly, your hair looks ridiculous.” Victor went about the business of restoring Greg’s hair to a less helmet-compressed shape. “There. That’s better.”

Greg smirked, “You’re just as bad, Rapunzel.” He said, and adjusted Victor’s part with his fingers. “God, you’ve got a lot of hair for a bloke.”

“Hey, people like my hair,” said Victor, “You like my hair.”

“That I do.” Greg looked over Victor’s shoulder to the other passengers and lowered his voice further.  “That guy is staring at us.”

Victor turned, and took an automatic step away from Greg as he did. On an ordinary day, he would’ve seen the nosy parker’s interest as an invitation to publicly snog, but not this day, not until Victor and Greg had made it all the way through customs, which was a drag, unless…

“Tell me why you like my hair,” Victor asked quietly, leaning back against the yellow rail, a proper distance away from Greg. Because while Victor understood that they couldn’t _snog_ on the shuttle without drawing unnecessary attention, he also understood that they could… _talk_. “But I want you to tell me without touching me.”

“That’s…wicked.” Greg smiled, his own understanding dawning. “Won’t they hear?”

“Not if we’re clever.” The shuttle moved forward then with a slight lurch and they were on their way. Victor let the motion of the carriage push him into Greg for just a moment, before rebounding back into place. “If we keep our voices low enough, they can’t hear us. We just have to keep our body language neutral.”

“Fuck body language, what about erections?”

“I promise you, Greg, no one’s going to see even your enormous cock from this distance,” Victor said under his breath, causing Greg to blush. Victor crossed his arms, and with a pleasantly neutral smile on his face, and prompted Greg once more. “Now, tell me why you like my hair.”

“It’s…sexy,” admitted Greg, sheepishly. “Feels so strange to say that about a bloke.”

“Feels good to hear it from a bloke,” Victor said, and casually knelt down to tighten his bootlaces. “You’re stupidly handsome yourself…and responsive.”

“Responsive?”

“Yeah. Your pupils are blown, your respiration’s fast. Bet your heart is pounding, isn’t it?”

Greg nodded and exhaled, shakily. “I’m so fucking turned on, I don’t know why.”

“Adrenaline rush,” Victor said, absently, standing and taking a step backwards. “Hitting The Ton set it off – well, that, and being on the run.”

“Christ yes,” gasped Greg.

“That’s why you got so angry – it had nothing to do with being late. It was the ‘fight or fuck’ response. All that adrenaline coursing through your body and nowhere for it to go. We couldn’t fuck, so you wanted to fight..” Victor gave particular weight to the word “fuck”, making Greg squirm. “Except now we can, albeit, in a completely verbal way.”

Greg turned his body slightly towards the wall, bracing himself along the rail. “You need to stop doing that if you want me to watch my body language.”

“Doing what?” Victor said innocently. “Talking about fucking?”

“Not helping…” said Greg, pointedly.

“Ever really thought about fucking a man, Greg?” Victor pushed, enjoying watching Greg struggle. “No? Bet you are now. Does the thought make you nervous?”

“Fuck,” whispered Greg, trying to seem casual, as if they’re talking about bikes, or the road ahead. “Yes, it makes me nervous.”

“That’s okay, you know. We won’t do anything you don’t want to do,” Victor said, frankly. “But, I have a feeling there’s a lot you do want to do, because you’re filthy, aren’t you?”

Greg licked his lips, looked away, busied himself with the contents of his coat’s vest pocket. “I-I…believe I am more openminded today than I was yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s very careful phrasing, Greg,” Victor rested both his hands against the rail behind him. “A terribly polite way of saying that you’re a filthy fuck. Say it, Greg.”

“Yeah, alright, what if I am? What if I am a filthy fuck?” Greg asked defiantly, while doing an excellent job of appearing indifferent. “What are you going to do about it?”

It was all Victor could do not to applaud, because god, he loved a submissive with a backbone! “Oh, Road Rash, the question is what _won’t_ I do. But the first thing I’m going to do is make you cum, right here in this train.”

Greg shook his head, “No, that’s not happening.”

“Why not? You’ve got a change of clothes in that pack. You can change before we set off for Amsterdam.”

“No, come on, that’s the kind of thing that….”

“That what? Gets people arrested? Too late!” Victor said, with a wink. “Let me ask you: you liked me sucking you in the bar, didn’t you?”

Greg nodded, without hesitation. It figured that a man would give him the best head he’s ever received in his life, because, well, who knew how to handle a penis better than someone with a penis? The memory of Victor’s mouth made Greg shaky, his hands strong, not tentative, not delicate, as rough as he wanted, as rough as he needed, and Greg remembered the moment he unapologetically came in Victor’s mouth. Unapologetic because they’d both known exactly what was about to happen, we’re both intimately familiar with the inevitable conclusion, so there was no need for guilt, and oh, fuck, it was so, so, good. “Yes.”

“When we get to Amsterdam, I’d like to do it again, to teach you, to remind you what feels good, so that you can suck me the right way. You think you could do that for me, Greg? Would you suck me if I asked you?”

Greg swallowed hard – and yes, realised, mid-swallow, what a telling response that was. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I want to suck you, Victor. I want you to teach me.”

“Good. There may be hope for you yet,” Victor smiled. “If you behave, I may even let you fuck me, what would you think about that?”

Greg paled at that comment, and nearly lost his footing thanks to the motion of the train. “Y-you would let me do that? I thought you were, you know, in charge.”

Victor laughed at that. “Sweetheart, just because I’m a Dom doesn’t mean I’m a Top. Admittedly, that is my preference, but I am nothing if not versatile, and you’ve been interested in men for all of four hours. Bottoming will likely require a little more time to adjust.”

Greg burned with embarrassment, and he shifted his body. As he did, it became increasingly obvious that his erection was suddenly at full attention – and, well,  Victor couldn’t help but notice, could he?

“Or, maybe not. Well, that’ll teach me to make assumptions about straight guys,” Victor beamed. “Is this arousal based on fantasy, or reality?”

“Reality.” Greg explained, in stops and starts, his voice husky with want. “There was a girl. We dated for a bit. She had…toys.”

Victor pressed. “Did she, really?”

“Yes.” Greg stammered. “I-I never told anyone.”

“You have now. Are you embarrassed?”

“Yes. Fuck…”

“You liked this girl?”

“I liked what she did. I liked how it made me feel.”

“The sensation?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Greg,” Victor replied. “Did she stroke you while she fucked you with her toys?”

“Yes, she…fuck, yes, she did,” Greg gripped the railing, his cock aching, tired of playing this game and wanting so badly to cum.

“Did she stroke you in time with the fucking?” Victor asked, his voice falling into a cadence that lulled Greg’s hips into following, little pulses.

“No,” he said, but it was more of a groan.

“Stupid girl. That’s basic. Rhythm is basic. Upstroke to upstroke, down to down, Greg, simple.  You can already feel it. I can see you giving in to it, the pace, without you even realizing it.” Victor leaned in as far as he dared. “And I promise you, a flesh and blood cock pulsing inside you is a million and one times better than a plastic one.”

“Oh god” Greg nodded, his cock properly aching, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he began leaking. His face flushed an even deeper red. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“Don’t do what? Fuck you? Or make you cum in this train?” Victor shrugged, unconcerned. “You can’t have one without the other.”

Stunned silence from Greg. “Th-that’s not fair, come on, Victor, be reasonable.”

“Your choice, Road Rash,” Victor shrugged a second time, and then tilted his head, assessing Greg’s situation. “Oh, you are close, aren’t you?”

“Shut it, please, you fuck…”

“That’s not very nice, is it, Greg? I won’t get mad, since most of the blood in your body appears to have gone to your cock.”

Greg’s moan in response was quiet and hushed. “I’m…sorry.”

“You are, but it’s charming. Bet you want to touch yourself, I know I do.” Victor said it with an unparalleled nonchalance.

“Yes.” Greg’s response was clipped, for fear that saying anything more would set himself off.

“You are a constant source of pleasant surprises, Greg,” Victor said, winningly, “And as such, I’m going to help you out, you filthy little fuck. You’re going to turn slightly into that corner, and I’m going to step in here, effectively blocking you from the being seen by the rest of the people on this shuttle. Bring yourself off quickly, and I solemnly promise to fuck you well into the mattress when we reach our destination – but be quick about it, you understand? I won’t offer this assistance again.”

Greg paused and then nodded.

“Good. ” That’s when Victor turned his back and got into position. Greg did as he was told, plunging a panicked hand into his pants when it was safe, turning to the wall and trying not to gasp. _Fucking hell_ , he thought, stifling a moan, _I’ve never been so turned on._  

Victor peeked over his shoulder and watched Greg cum, silently, shuddering, making a mess of his jeans, his free hand white-knuckling the railing. He was truly gorgeous, mouth open, a soft sheen of sweat on his face. _Another pretty boy_ , Victor thought, with a slight shake of his head. He thought of Sherlock and wished he were here to join in the fun.

Victor picked up the helmet that Greg had thrown onto the floor during his tantrum, and placed it, strategically, over Greg’s cum-stained crotch. “That’ll get you to the bike. Once you’re on the bike, no one will see a thing.”

The train began to slow as he continued. “Good timing, Road Rash. You did very well. Thank you.”

Greg laughed, and let out a breath. “Fuck, thank you, man.”

As th shuttle slowed, everyone began to stir, repacking their bike and getting ready to ride. Victor took advantage of the distractions and reached into his pocket. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in grave danger of coming down. Dove or four leaf clover?” he asked, as he held up two more tablets of X.

Greg shook his head, smiling. “You’re something else.”

“That I am.”

“Fine,” Greg said, “Gimme the four leaf clover, then.”

“Why? You think you’re going to get lucky?” Victor asked knowingly, and popped the clover tab into his own mouth. Before Greg could protest, Victor brought his mouth to Greg’s and deposited the tab onto Greg’s tongue by way of a toe-curling, open-mouthed kiss.

“That’s a given, Greg,” he said, and then jerked his head towards the bike, swallowing the dove tablet as he did. “Now all we have to do is cross our fingers and see if my friend’s hijinks have bought us enough time.”

“Shit,” said Greg, “Kind of forgot about that for a moment.”

“Never fear, once we get past customs, there’s 237 miles of straightaways and speed limits to shatter, kid,” Victor grinned. “We got this.”

“And if we don’t,” Greg added, as he straddled the bike. “Well, maybe they’ll put us in adjoining cells again, right?”

He gunned the engine as Victor climbed in behind him, and they followed the other bikes into France.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Apologies for it posting so late today, but that last bit took some extra time! 
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease: [This Youtube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mHMoSJYo10) takes you into the EuroTunnel shuttle on the back of a motorcycle. Good stuff!
> 
> \- [Grand Theft Auto 1](http://gta.wikia.com/Grand_Theft_Auto_1) was the most popular videogame released in 1997
> 
> \- Newcastle Brown Ale, [according to Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newcastle_Brown_Ale), is the working man’s beer
> 
> \- Greg’s cursing tantrum when he arrives on the shuttle is taken directly from [Billy Mack’s cursing tantrum in “Love Actually”](http://www.imdb.com/character/ch0005815/quotes). 
> 
> \- Leave it to Victor to reformulate [the "Flight or Fight" response](http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fight-or-flight_response) to better suit his own personal behaviors...
> 
> Hoped you liked this week's chapter!  
> See you next Sunday! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	10. 5:57am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Greg take on the UK Border Agency…

 

 

“…thrill seekers opt for excitement and stimulation whenever they can find it, through intense physical or mental activity, or both." _  
_

_**Craving for Ecstasy and Natural Highs: A Positive Approach to Mood Alteration,** edited by Harvey B. Milkman, Stanley G. Sunderwirth_

**5:57am**

Victor slid behind Greg, suddenly hyper-conscious of the pressure his body exerted and the unexpected impact that had on the driver. He gripped Greg’s hips, theoretically for balance, but in reality, it was to allow him to lean just that much harder against him. Greg turned, acknowledging the movement with a shake of his head, before accelerating to catch up with the bike ahead of him.

People first started talking about the Channel Tunnel in 1988, when Greg was 17, the same year he’d learned how to drive. Back then, he’d imagined the tunnel would be very different from the way ended up. He’d thought that people would be able to get in their cars or bikes and actually drive the length of the tunnel – and how bloody fantastic would that be? The idea of driving in a tunnel that long and that narrow – under the bloody ocean, mind you – would’ve been _brilliant_. Needless to say, when in opened in 1994, the reality of the “Chunnel” was underwhelming, at least to 23-year-old gearheads like Greg.

They drove off the train, and it looked like the road just led out to the motorway. For a moment, Greg was giddy with the hope that maybe there wouldn’t be a customs checkpoint, after all, but the road wrapped around and eventually led directly into a tollbooth queue. He idled the engine and felt a tap on his shoulder. Lifting his visor, he turned around to look at Victor.

“Don’t. Panic.” Victor said emphatically, and handed him his U.S. Passport. “It’s going to be fine. We’re just two mates on a roadtrip, right?”

“Right.” Greg nodded. “Two mates who just broke out of prison. Two mates who are high, one with stained pants and the other with a pocket near bursting with an illegal drug. No sweat…”

Victor stripped off his hoodie and handed it to Greg. “Tie this around your waist,” he said, and Greg did, solving one problem – granted, the least of their problems, but it was something. “Look, chances are, we’ll skate right through with a passport check. Under five minutes. And then we’ll be free.” Victor’s hand moved up to his shoulder, squeezed and then pointed. “Like those guys.”

Greg watched another bike idle at the tollbooth, hand over documents and then drive away, free and clear. The bike in front of them pulled forward and handed over their documents to the UKBA agent. “Your friend is good, right?” Greg asked, chewing at his lip.

“My friend is good.” Victor affirmed, with a confidence that was a little unnerving.

 “He’d better be,” Greg said, with a sigh, and edged the bike up a few feet closer to the tollbooth.

 

**6:06am**

“Welcome to Calais, documentation please?”

The UK Border Agent at the toll booth was not what Greg had expected. She was a woman, first off, and she was pretty, even while wearing the horrible orange reflective UKBA vest. Blonde. Delicate. With skin so translucent, he could see the blue veins underneath. She was the kind of girl he might buy a drink for in a pub.

But none of that mattered, because right now, in that moment, she was an angel of death. A pretty blonde thing with the power to send him back to England, back to his father, back to more than just a revoked license, back to actual prison. Bloody fucking prison! His heart pounded so hard in his chest, he was sure she could hear, and his hand trembled as he handed her their passports.

 “H-Here you go.”

She took the documents and scanned them into her computer, furrowing her brow and pressing a few more buttons. She frowned and then smashed another series of keys on her console.

This was it, he realised. This was the moment when it could all come crashing down. How the hell did they think they’d be able to get away with this? More importantly, what the fuck had he been thinking when he followed Victor out of that prison? His whole life was ruined, forever, and he’d thrown it all away because he’d been charmed by a _bloke_ , for fuck’s sake – and he wasn’t even gay!

 _But I was – am - high_ , he thought, and immediately dismissed it, though he wished he couldn’t. He couldn’t blame what happened with Victor on the drugs, not after admitting what he had about Jeannette and her bloody box of toys. Not that liking…that…made him gay. _But kissing Victor sure did. Letting him suck you in that bar. Literally cumming for him on the train, yeah, that made you…well, let’s say not entirely straight._

“Are you Mr. Lestrade?”

Greg was jolted back into the present.

“Um, yeah, that’s me,” he said, sweaty inside his helmet. “Is-is there a problem?”

Time stopped, his pulse racing like mad in the split second between him asking that question and her answering it. Victor placed a discreet hand on his waist, a calming touch, but it hardly helped in that moment.

“I’m just trying to identify whose passport belongs to whom,” The blonde in the booth explained, and turned her attention to Victor. “That makes you the American, yes?”

And that’s when Victor pulled off his helmet.

It was a singularly cinematic move, revealing that glorious mane of hair, golden and tousled in all the right ways. Enviably cool and collected, the Yank dangled his helmet from his fingers and smiled at the agent. “Yeah, hey. I’m Victor. My Visa should be in order, but we’re really only driving through France.”

Greg could’ve sworn he heard a soundtrack swell somewhere as he watched this ridiculous, impossible scene play out in front of him. It was a shampoo commercial, it was a bloody romance novel, it was a meet-cute in a rom-com and when Victor smiled, Greg saw the blush rise in the woman’s cheeks. _Poor thing,_ Greg thought, _she never stood a chance._

 _Then again, neither did I,_ Greg amended.

“Oh? Where are you headed?” she asked, and Greg wondered if that question was official or if it was asked strictly for her own benefit.

“Copenhagen,” Victor said, automatically.

“Right,” Greg chimed in, lamely. “Copenhagen.”

She entered something into her computer before looking up shyly, directing her next question, again, to Victor. “Purpose of visit?”

“Pleasure,” Victor said, with careless ease, and in such a tone that both Greg and the agent had to stifle their reactions. Victor then segued into an effortless lie. “We have a friend in university there.”

“Lucky friend,” The agent said under her breath. “How long will you be there?”

“A few days” he answered. “We both have to be back at work on Wednesday.”

“Oh, “ she asked. “What do you do for work?”

Victor was good, but no one is perfect, and Greg felt Victor shift and hesitate.. Obviously, Victor couldn’t tell her his real profession, and border agents aren’t known for exactly welcoming unemployed people into the countries they serve. Greg turned to see Victor’s easy smile falter slightly, and Greg jumped in. “We’re mechanics. We both work in the same garage.”

“I seriously wish my garage hired mechanics that looked like you two,” she said ( _the naughty thing_ ), and then…and then…

And then she smiled and miraculously, impossibly, unbelievably, handed them their passports. “Well, gents, welcome to France and enjoy Copenhagen,” she said, and pressed the button to lift the gate.

Greg turned to Victor, Victor grinned at Greg and they both pocketed their passports. Victor put on his helmet, Greg dropped his visor, and they both waved goodbye to the beautiful blonde agent in the orange reflective vest.

They. Were. Free.

 

*****

 

**6:21am**

Victor made them wait, passing the first three petrol stations after leaving Calais before tapping Greg on the shoulder in front of a 24-hour Total station. It was still dark out, and the station was empty, although traffic passed at a good clip around them.

They celebrated their victorious crossing with enthusiastic (albeit hushed) conversation while they filled the bike’s tank. Ten minutes later, Victor had him pressed up against the tile in the convenience store’s men’s room, his dirty jeans and pants crumpled in a corner.

To be fair, Greg had protested. “Mate…you already…I already, I…it’s my turn…” but then Victor had locked the door, shoved him up onto the counter and then shut him up with a single long lick of his cock and an almost-painful squeeze of the balls. “Oh my god,” was all that Greg said for a very long while.

Victor liked this, liked Greg, liked the way he pushed back, like Sherlock had back in the day. But Sherlock was never a submissive, much to Victor’s disappointment, and while he adored and appreciated Sherlock for who and what he was, their wrestling matches had certainly evolved with that understanding. In contrast, Greg was definitely a sub, but in his case, it was his sexuality that was evolving --  and Victor felt responsible for kicking off that evolution, and now he felt responsible for seeing it through to its resolution, if Greg would let him.

Later, in the convenience store, Victor drank a beer while they shopped, mulling things over. “You remember what you said in the prison?”

Greg was sated and happy and eager and picking items off the shelf in anticipation of their pending drive. “Gonna have to be a little more specific than that, Vic.”

Victor paused, catching the other man’s eye. “About this being for one night?”

Greg looked at the floor. “Right. One night only.” He repeated the gesture he’d made in prison, with a smile. “Yeah, I do remember that.”

“You still sticking with that?” Victor nodded to the windows in front of the store. Outside, the sky was already starting to lighten. “Sunrise is in less than two hours.”

 “You said we’d be in Holland before sunrise.”

“A hundred miles an hour, we’ll still make it with time enough to get shwarma.” Victor said. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“Not avoiding.” Greg asked. “Just…I mean, obviously, no. Our situation changed the minute we left the precinct, but…”

“But?” Victor , adding a packet of Jammie Dodgers to the pile of junk food in Greg’s arms.

“It feels strange to say this, after what just happened,” Greg said, glancing toward the loo.

 “Road Rash, a blowjob is not a proposal,” Victor drawled, and ran a hand through Greg’s hair. “You won’t break my heart if you say it’s done.”

“I never said that,” Greg said, with a shake of his head. “I just mean I’m still not sure what this all means. Shit, it’s six in the morning and I’m standing in the middle of France with a man I didn’t know seven hours ago.”

“And you’re an international fugitive from justice, let’s not forget that!” Victor said, lifting his bottle as if to toast that fact. He drained the rest of his beer. “Alright then, how about, from now on, no time limits, no pressure? We’ll just see what the day has in store for us and move on from there, deal?”

“Deal,” said Greg, relieved, and pushed Victor toward the exit. They paid for their purchases and packed up the bike outside.

Greg zipped up his leather jacket and looked down at the motorway in front of them. “162 miles.” He turned his attention to Victor, and eyed his hoodie, brow raised. “You gonna be warm enough in that coat?”

Victor shrugged, in his hoodie. “I was alright going to Folkestone, should be alright here. Weather’s still warm.”  

“Yeah, but we’re headed north. And we’ll be driving 100 miles an hour.” Greg unzipped his hastily-packed bag and rummaged around inside before pulling out an item of clothing and handing it to Victor. “It’s old-school, but it will keep you warm. Used to be mine before I bought this one.”

 Victor looked at the coat in his hands, a vintage leather motorcycle jacket, with a two-way zippered front and a belted waist, it was the definition of rocker-cool, and had been for decades. The leather was butter soft, and the seams were slightly distressed. This coat hadn't been just a coat, it had been loved. “Dude, I can’t take this.”

“Borrow, then,” Greg reassured, with a sly smile. “Believe me, I don’t want you chattering behind me, all the way to the Netherlands.”

Victor slipped it on. The fit was tighter than it had been on Greg, those years ago, but it still fit, and fit well. If Greg’s sexuality hadn’t already been in question, the way his cock thickened the moment he saw Victor in that coat would’ve been evidence enough to open discussion.

“You like?” Victor asked.

“Yeah. Yes, I mean,” Greg stammered. “Very fucking much.” He remembered long nights wearing nothing but that coat, sex with girls who liked the way the leather felt. He’d liked it, too, the feel of it against his skin, the chill of the metal zipper against his flesh.

He shivered, and Victor noticed, pressing a hand to the back of his neck and his mouth to Greg’s. “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”

Greg hummed, “I have no doubt you will,” and pressed against him.

Victor pressed back. If they didn’t stop now, Victor knew he would have Greg on this bloody bike, in the middle of the petrol station and then they’d both be in jail again. He reluctantly pulled away, with a growl. “Amsterdam. Before sunrise.”

Greg groaned, and gripped the buckle at the front of Victor’s jacket. “Right, Amsterdam.” He strapped his bag back onto the bike, and they both put on their helmets. “237 miles.” he repeated, his hands on the grips.

“Tear it up, Greg,” Victor said, his voice muffled through the helmet. “And make it fast!” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
> They made it to the continent!  
> I think I’m falling in love with these two boys. VicStrade FTW! 
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease – [Greg and Victor’s passports](http://www.erzebet.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/dual-citizenship.jpg)
> 
> \- Just letting you know, I’m playing all kinds of fast and loose with the customs process with the EuroStar tunnel transports. Last week’s research told me that customs going from UK to France was conducted in France, but this week, I found [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Qgd_kjTvEI),which clearly shows that it must be done in the UK, because this dude drives straight from the tunnel train to the highway. Research this week also confused me, with the Eurotunnel destination in France being called, randomly, either Calais or Coquelles, depending upon the source. The [official Eurotunnel webpage says Calais, so I'm going with that!](http://www.eurotunnel.com/uk/home)
> 
> \- [Total Petrol Station, before dawn](http://www.totalparco.com.pk/lub/content/NT0010983A.jpg)
> 
> -Greg’s [vintage leather jacket](http://www.harley-davidson.com/store/vintage-leather-biker-jacket) (but Greg’s decidedly does NOT have a Harley Davidson patch)
> 
>  
> 
> Next week, Amsterdam!  
> Thanks for all the support, y'all!
> 
> PLEASE NOTE (1/18/15): Chapter 11 will not update today, as scheduled (my writing weekend turned into a working weekend, apologies)! Chapter 11 will post NEXT Sunday, 1/25/15!
> 
>  vex.


	11. 7:01am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Greg, on the road!

“These (Velocette Venoms) could be, and were, ridden hard, with the lusty sound of the famous fishtail muffler echoing off the hills. On a fast nighttime run, the header pipe could be seen glowing.” 

**_–[From an article by Clement Salvadori ](http://www.motorcycleclassics.com/classic-british-motorcycles/velocette-venom-clubman-zmmz09ndzraw.aspx?PageId=1#axzz3P59T8IwX)for Motorcycle Classics Magazine (November/December 2009)_ **

**7:01am**

To Victor, it felt like flying.

_(…macadam passing in a blur below them, a constantly changing montage, a monochrome film in fast forward, always forward, the edges of white road markings, skipping in and out of view, rhythmic, spellbinding…)_

He’d thought it would feel different. Stressful and tense, adrenaline flowing, bodies hunched and braced against the wind. Victor had expected the trip would be a sort of test, a trial, an effort, something to be defeated, conquered, owned. Something to survive.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

_(…nothing between them and the shifting sky, its dark blue giving way to deep purple, clouds rolling, parting like curtains at the horizon, an invitation, a temptation, a tease. The road beckoned and they rode, becoming a single point connecting earth and sky…)_

To be honest, he had been tense, at first. He’d ridden motorcycles before, of course, but they’d always been heavy bikes, Harleys, rolling recliners offering wide seats and lots of comfort, bikes that gave the illusion of stability and purred along like fat, contented cats. The Velocette Venom, on the other hand, was an alleycat, lean and hungry but still spoiling for a fight. The first time they’d capped 100 miles an hour on the Venom, in England, Victor had felt surprisingly vulnerable. The basic wrongness of moving at that speed, exposed, without the protective cage of a car or even the wide berth of a Harley overwhelmed him on a basic human level. His primal instincts kicked in, understanding that _this should not be possible_ – that to outrace the air, to move so quickly that your eyes are no longer capable of registering passing objects – _this should not be possible_.

And yet, miraculously, it was.

_(…petrol and petrichor, motor oil and hot rubber, cut grass and manure, every molecule of every scent they passed, propelled into their noses at 100+ miles an hour, an endless spectrum of scents, both man-made and natural, an olfactory onslaught, a constant stream of signals to the limbic system, forming intense, glorious scent memories…)_

Eventually, Victor’s brain came to terms with the fact that it was, indeed, possible for him to feel this rush of air against his bare skin, to travel twice as fast as a lion and survive. Thrive, even, if he’d just let go and welcome the rush, the hit, the high that came from speed and sensation and living faster than everything around them. It seemed like a paradox, to feel at once exposed and impervious, to ride on the edge of complete annihilation (and let’s be honest, at 100mph, on these motorways, they were one pothole away from being organ donors), while at the same time, to feel somehow preternatural, everlasting, transcendent. The moment he gave in, he understood Greg’s obsession, because on this bike, going this speed, they stopped being human.

On this bike, they became invincible gods.

 

**7:22am**

To Greg, it felt like dancing.

_(…muscle memory, and he was lost, lost to the road, to the bike, to the vibration, his body tipping with every curve, feeling the whine of the engine as they hit a sharp incline. He was no longer riding a bike, he **was** the bike, and he moved in a complicated sequence of studied movements and micro-movements that kept them on the road and pushing towards the horizon…)_

It was almost better if he didn’t think -- he’d caught on to that part pretty fucking quick when he was first learning to ride. If he just let the white noise drone of the engine and the wind rise and fall around him, if he let himself be aware of the shifts in weather, the smallest drops in temperature, miniscule increases in moisture on his skin, the gradation of the road ahead, he was much better off. It was like being drunk, only not so. Being drunk made you sleepy, sloppy, slow – riding the bike sent him to a place where he was alert, but in a totally controlled way, The bike drove him, and he felt both sharper than he’d ever been and at the same time, more relaxed…

 _(…the same way he’d felt at the restaurant with Emma, the way he felt with Victor , it felt like…)_  

…subspace, not that Greg had ever heard that word, but it’s what he felt, in the rightness of the girl, in the wrongness of the boy, in the bloody bike that vibrated wildly between his legs, the weight of the men and the stress of the road taking it’s toll. He thought about finally asking Emma for her number, thought about the deliberate expression on her face when she’d refused, and thought about what his own expression must’ve been when she’d turned around and demanded his instead. He thought about Victor kissing him between the bars of the prison, the feel of their cocks together in Victor’s hand at the bar, the feel of his hands kneading, insistent. He wondered how many people – men and women – had felt those hands, kissed those lips, thought about Emma and Victor and their faces became one, merging, their hands, their mouths, their combined presence behind him persistent and close and Greg’s connection to the bike faltered. In that singular moment, the Venom swerved, hitting a rock in the road and spinning the tyre. Half a breath later, the sky went dangerously vertical. Icy adrenaline shot through both men on the bike, but Greg was the first to respond to the chemical jolt…

 _(…FOCUS …)_  

…he snapped to and worked to realign the bike, locking his arms tight on the handlebars and shifting his body to the left, to counterbalance the slip. Half a second later, Victor grasped at his hips, panicking, but catching on quick, adding his weight to the counterbalance, and the horizon once again became fully horizontal. Balance restored, they were still moving, still fucking alive, but still holding their breath. Greg did the only thing he could do and braked slowly, pulling over deep into the shoulder, his arm muscles clenched-to-shaking and his heart thundering in his chest. When they finally rolled to a stop, he closed his eyes and may have even said a silent prayer before dropping his feet to the ground.

Inside his gloves, his hands trembled. He can’t imagine what Vic-

 (…VICTOR!)

Victor charged off the bike as soon as it had stopped, the bike lurching in his wake, his absence immediately felt. Greg watched as Victor ripped off his helmet and stomped away from the bike.

( _He has every right to be angry,_ Greg told himself, _you almost killed him, daydreaming for chrissakes, and now he is coming to kill YOU!_ )

With a great sense of purpose, Victor moved to the front of the bike, hair wild and mouth tight. He pulled off Greg’s helmet. “Drop the kickstand.”

“Look, Victor, I’m sor—“

“Drop. The. Kickstand.”

This was not a request.

Greg rushed to comply, anticipating the punch that was inevitably coming and not wanting to make him any angrier – because, fuck, he deserved it, didn’t he? Letting his mind wander at 100mph was fucking stupid, of course he fucking deserved it. With the kickstand engaged, Greg moved to get off the bike, to take what was coming to him - but as he moved, he was pushed down, pushed back as Victor forcibly wedged himself between Greg and the handlebars, straddling the gas tank and facing him, advancing, his right hand suddenly tearing at the hair on the back of his neck, his left hand pawing at his crotch and his mouth biting into Greg’s...

The adrenaline response. Fuck or Fight. In Calais, Greg had chosen to fight when he got mad, but this time, Victor had chosen for the both of them, and when Victor unzipped Greg’s jeans, Greg was eternally thankful for having nearly spun out on one of the lesser-traveled roadways.

“We can’t…”

“Wanna bet?”

“We’ll be late.”

“I don’t care.”

“Cars will go by, they’ll see.”

“So?” Victor growled, but hesitated, and then pushed back, stopping himself, scrubbing his hands over his face as if making a concession to some unseen entity. “Fine, fuck, let’s do this. Pick a word.”

“A word?”

“Yeah, pick a word. One that you don’t say often. Any word.”

Greg’s mind reeled. “Um, I…dunno, I…why?”

“It’s called a safeword, okay, kid? You say it and I stop whatever I’m doing, tout fucking suite, got it? But until you say it, I’m not stopping shit. Understood?”

“Yeah.” Greg said, nodding. His hands were still trembling, but he didn’t think it was from the crash anymore. “Alright,” he looked around him, eyes scrambling for a word, any word. Trees, asphalt, a roadsign: _Antwerpen, 60km_. “Okay, uh, ‘Antwerp’?”

“Antwerp it is.” The words were barely out of Victor’s mouth before it was back on the boy who, by now, he’d laid out flat on the bike, spine to the seat. He unzipped Greg’s leather jacket, lifted his t-shirt, chest now bared but not-so-bare, revealing more chest hair than Victor had expected, a pleasant surprise. Greg looked like a boy, but he wasn’t, not really, was he? -- and that thought gave the American even more of a charge. He kissed Greg’s mouth, nipped at his jaw, bit into the willing flesh of his neck, his shoulder, and Christ, that chest.

It was dawn, about an hour before sunrise, and the sky was still dark, a dusky blue that gave Greg’s pale skin a ghostly glow, breathtaking, gorgeous. The warm chemical wash of the X they’d taken in Calais had clearly taken hold, and Victor’s fingers pressed along the sides of Greg’s chest, counting every rib, his mouth licking each nipple until Greg moaned and thrashed. The biker lifted his hips, wanting to feel the Victor’s weight on top of him, and while the occasional passing car did make him tense, Victor couldn’t help but notice that it also made Greg’s cock surge in a most insistent way. _Brilliant,_ thought Victor, with a smile, _Road Rash likes public._ Goddamn, he loved being right about other peoples’ kinks.

Obviously, this was not news -- after all, just an hour earlier, Greg had gotten off on a train just because Victor had told him to. Hard to make that happen if you don’t at least have some sort of bend in that direction. But this confirmed it, and the American couldn’t think of a better destination than Amsterdam for a burgeoning exhibitionist. This trip was just getting better and better...

Victor kissed along Greg’s belly, down the trail of hair that led inside the waistband of his boxers, his hands now pressing and kneading his cock through the fabric. That’s when Greg growled and sat up, pushing Victor upright and backward. “No. My fucking turn.”

Victor lifted a brow, but didn’t object when Greg stood up, and positioned Victor on the bike until he was sitting side-saddle in the seat. Victor’s back was now to the traffic, his feet planted on the ground, his new position and the angle of the bike now providing the barest of cover for what Greg wanted to do. He knelt and fumbled with Victor’s belt buckle. When Greg had successfully loosened his jeans, he paused and looked up at him.

Victor looked down, curiously. “Second thoughts?”

“Fuck you, I want to do this.”

“You sure you want to do this here?” Victor asked, nodding to the road behind them. A car sped past them, as if on cue.

“Oh, yeah,” Greg grinned.

Victor eyed him, reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, extending this moment, loving the anticipation. He lit it, emitting a plume of smoke that dissipated into the air. “And you’ve never done this before, not even in school?”

“You _are_ used to posh, aren’t you?” Greg smirked, tipping Victor’s thoughts, inevitably, to Sherlock. Greg swiped Victor’s cigarette and put it to his lips with a knowing look. “Nah, I didn’t go to a school like that, mate.”

Victor smiled. “Neither did I.”

“Two of a kind.” Greg stood up, exhaled and held out the smoke to Victor. “So, you gonna be my first, then?”

Victor took a drag, and considered Greg, the delicate, almost feminine features of his face clashing with the masculine lines of his clothing, his haircut, that bloody bike. Not once did Victor entertain the thought of saying no, but damn it was fun to keep Greg guessing. “Yeah, alright then,” he said, after a moment of reflection. “Been a long time since I was anyone’s first anything.”

Greg perked, and he leaned in, brushing his lips against Victor’s ear. “Lucky for you I’m a quick learner.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it, Road Rash, ” Victor murmured.

“How hard can it be?”

“You tell me,” Victor said, pulling Greg’s hand over his erection.

“Impressive. But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Your bravado’s admirable,” Victor said, gesturing dangerously, cigarette in hand. “But you bite anything off and you won’t live to see Amsterdam.”

“Point taken. Burn me with your cigarette and neither will you,” Greg shot back, giving as good as he got. “Can’t wait to see if you can keep up this kind of banter when I’m choking on your cock.”

Choking was, perhaps, an overstatement for the first-timer – leave it to Greg to trash-talk a sex scene – but Greg would get his answer in just a matter of seconds. Victor’s head fell backward and his mouth fell shut the moment the biker’s lips wrapped tentatively around him, and internally, Greg was beaming.  It was, by no means, the best blowjob of Victor’s life, not even close. It was inherently awkward and messy, ungainly, even, with Greg having to first sort out the mechanics of the thing, figuring out breathing and pacing, coming to terms with taste, with the limitations of the dimensions of his mouth, of his gag reflex, and the tears and snot that came whenever the gag reflex came into play. But, it was also inherently fascinating, watching the play of cause and effect – the way Victor would groan whenever he hollowed his cheeks, the way Victor could guide him to the right pace with just a gentle touch, and the way he could make the American’s cock jump and shift in pleasure. It was mesmerizing, watching the way the skin moved at close range, an ever-changing topography. Greg never knew how visible that movement was, and he wondered if all cocks moved like that, or if Victor’s was just exceptionally active.

Halfway through, Greg realised he hadn’t even been using his hands, and he rushed to remedy the fact. Using his hands at the base of Victor’s erection stabilized it, made it easier to work around, and allowed him to come up for air, stroking Victor while he caught his breath. Victor ran a reassuring hand through his hair, tugging it a little. “Not bad, kid.”

“Not done yet.”

“Better not be,” Victor said, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, eyes closed, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. Greg took him into his mouth again, this time with a little more confidence. He found his pace more quickly this time, and felt comfortable enough to experiment with his tongue, tracing the path of the veins, sucking, licking, and even risking Amsterdam by adding a slight edge of teeth. His teeth sent Victor’s hips bucking into him in a _very_ good way, and Greg could feel him building, feel the tension increase, the need in his movements, the shallowness of his breath, the less-than-gentle touches, the desperation and the hunger. Greg hadn’t expected this part, he hadn’t expected the heady thrill that came with being in complete control of someone else’s orgasm. Control was clearly not Greg’s thing, as Victor had been so quick to point out in prison, but in this moment, he felt the flush of pride at the power he could wield, using just his mouth. Greg had felt it with girls, of course, but only on occasion and even then it was always somewhat suspect. Who knew what girls felt, really, most of the time? Everything was so internal with girls (unless you watched some very specific videos in Mark’s collection) -- but men? Men were different. Everything was out in the open and there was never a doubt as to whether a man had gotten off or not. Case in point, in that moment, Greg knew for a fact that that Victor was close, so goddamn close, his cock tensing and thickening and leaking like mad. Greg licked his lips and redoubled his efforts, and felt the rumble of Victor’s voice, deep in his chest.

“Shit, Greg…just like that…” he said, and Greg stayed the course, the familiar feel of the bike beneath him, the growingly familiar smell of Victor’s skin mingled with motor oil and fuck, he was turned on. Behind them, cars sped past them as Victor careened toward completion, his moans louder, his hips pulsing into Greg’s mouth, and in the last moments, Greg panicked because…because…because, fuck, Victor was going to cum and even though that was the whole fucking point, he hadn’t thought it through, had he? Would he or wouldn’t he, and fuck, there was no time because Victor was already over the edge and a split-second later there was cum in Greg’s mouth, on his tongue, on his lips, and there was a lot of it. He thought about all the girls who’d swallowed him in his lifetime and made a mental note to send them all flowers because swallowing was not…happening, not this time, maybe fucking never. He turned his head and spat, hoping Victor would be too lost in the moment to notice.

“Fuck, Road Rash…” Victor groaned, a little breathlessly, reaching down to tug on his hair and pat his cheek, sleepy-eyed and content. “You alright?”

Greg nodded, and stood, watching Victor tuck himself back into his jeans, buckle his belt, every move efficient, confident, even post…whatever this was. Nothing dulled Victor’s senses, not even orgasms. “Was it, uh…was it…good?”

“When is a blowjob ever not good?” Victor said, and shot him a reassuring 100-watt smile. “No, all seriousness, it was not bad for a rookie, not bad at all,” he said casually, and then looked up, suddenly aware of what was going on. “Oh, Christ. You’re so fucking hard on yourself.” He shoved the other man, lightly. “You’re actually pissed that you didn’t swallow, aren’t you?”

Shit, he _had_ noticed. Greg responded the only way he knew how, by shoving back. “Shut up. I tried, right. It looks easy when girls do it.”

“Look, you little shit, it was your first fucking time! It’s easier when you get used to it,” Victor said, grappling and grabbing Greg’s arms, holding him tight, preventing him from shoving him again. “But, you know, it’s never French fucking Vanilla ice cream.”

Greg thrashed against him, secretly enjoying the feeling of being confined, enjoying the struggle. “Why do we like when people do it, then?”

“Because sometimes,” Victor started, with a sigh, feeling Greg flex and fight against him, the man obviously holding back but it was still enough to  trip a trigger deep inside the American. Deliberately, slowly, Victor pushed him up against the front of the bike, straddling the tyre. “Because sometimes, it’s fun to make people do unpleasant things.”

Victor’s words fell over Greg, forcing an involuntary shiver, the traffic behind them forgotten. Greg lifted his eyes to Victor’s, only to find his eyes already locked on him. “Yeah?”

Victor nodded, slowly. “Yesss…” he hissed, with an expression harder than Greg had ever seen.   “But for now, what we need is a door that locks and a proper fucking bed,” he said,

Greg couldn’t breathe. Victor’s fingers held his wrists so tightly it had made his flesh white from the effort. Greg felt an entirely fucked-up, sickly ache inside, and he knew he’d never _wanted_ anyone or anything so desperately. “Amsterdam, then?”

Victor let go of Greg and picked up the helmets with a decisive nod. “Amsterdam. Now.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I said we’d make it to Amsterdam this chapter.  
> The boys, however, had another plan entirely...
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***  
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease – [Antwerp!](http://www.portofantwerp.com/sites/portofantwerp/files/imce/Reports/Jaarverslag2011/Verkeersbord-wegverkeer_1.jpg)
> 
> \- I don’t ride motorcycles, but thanks to the internet, I can virtually experience it, thanks to posts like [this one](http://www.quora.com/What-does-it-feel-like-to-ride-a-motorcycle)!
> 
> \- [Cool-ass service manual](http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.gibbison/v-tec/Files/RELIABNP.PDF) for the Velocette Venom!
> 
> \- Awesome [2012 Women’s Wear Daily photo shoot for Belstaff](http://www.wwd.com/media-news/fashion-memopad/home-sweet-home-6107753) featuring Ewan MacGregor and none other than a Velocette Venom!
> 
> \- MEA CULPA – I keep running into research fails (which is fucking funny, considering I applied to be a panelist at 221B this month, and one of the panels I applied for was “Research in Fic”, ha!) – 162 miles is, in fact, the distance between Calais and Amsterdam, but it’s /as the crow flies/. Actual driving distance is 237 miles, [per Michelin](http://www.viamichelin.com/web/Routes/Route-Calais-62100-Pas_de_Calais-France-to-Amsterdam-_-Noord_Holland-Netherlands?strStartLocid=31NDJxdzgxMGNOVEF1T1RVNE1ERT1jTVM0NE5USTBOQT09&strDestLocid=31NDF0em0xMGNOVEl1TXpjek1UVT1jTkM0NE9UQTJOZz09). With your collective permission, I will change the 162 mile references to the proper 237 throughout this fic, after I post this Chapter… 
> 
>  
> 
> Next time (seriously) Amsterdam! 
> 
> A few additional notes: those with sharp eyes may have noticed that the “?” is no longer present in the chapter tallies – I have fully fleshed out the back end of this script, HOWEVER, that said, don’t be surprised if the boys upend me once again and force me to throw in an unexpected chapter or two, it happens!
> 
> ALSO, with this planning firmly in place, I’m officially going to change the update frequency for this fic to every TWO weeks, not every week – this fic became a lot more complex over time, and I want to make sure I have enough time to deliver the best story possible, for Victor and Greg as well as for you! ☺
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!
> 
> See you next time! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	12. 8:52am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amsterdam, at last!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/16: Heads up, y'all, I just figured out how to do hover boxes on AO3, which means that if you hover over non-English text, text that the characters don't translate for you, the English translation will appear (be patient, it will take a second of hovering). :-)

"I get so lost inside myself

Like a tourist in Amsterdam

I'd love to introduce myself

But I don't know who I am"

- _ **"I'm a Killer" - All Star United**_

 

**8:52am**

In spite of Greg’s best efforts and the Velocette Venom’s first-rate performance, the boys _didn’t_ end up making it to Amsterdam by sunrise – not that either man was complaining…after all, who could complain about anything on a day like this?

Amsterdam dawned bright around them, all blue skies and sparkling water, this intersection of culture and vulgarity, this impossible, improbable city, its very presence a nervous testament to man’s dominion over nature – a modern metropolis they’d had the audacity to build 2 meters below sea level. If the dams fail, Amsterdam will be the first to fall when the seas begin to rise, and perhaps that’s that reason the city is so beloved: Amsterdammers live with the knowledge that eventually, their city will be reclaimed by the sea, so they’d best to enjoy it while they can…

Greg and Victor drove into the city centre, a horseshoe-shaped section of town ringed by three main canals. Victor directed Greg to a block of houses along one of these canals and motioned for him to stop in front of a dark brick home, painted blue at the bottom with a small porch out front.

Greg turned off the engine and pulled off his helmet, looking around him. “This place is not at all what I thought, mate.”

“What? Amsterdam?”

“Yeah,” said Greg, stepping off the bike. “I always thought it would be all, like, seedy strip clubs, like Soho. But it’s really beautiful!”

Victor marveled. “What? Have you never been here before?”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t smoke weed, so I never saw the point.”

“You’re an idiot, Greg, you know that?” Victor sighed and stood up,  counting off points one-by-one on his fingers. “Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Architecture, History, the Flower Market, the World’s narrowest house, the World’s Oldest Comic Book Shop and Anne-Fucking-Frank!”

“Shit, I’m convinced, okay?” Greg said, hands up in faux surrender. “I’m a dumbass for thinking it was all coffeeshops and the Red Light District.”

“Well, to be fair, the coffeeshops and the Red Light District are also pretty fun,” conceded Victor.

“So, where are we?”

“Home,” Victor said, stretching his legs. “At least for a little while.”

The building, like the ones that surrounded it, was a classic Dutch canal house – tall, extremely narrow and perfectly maintained with fresh flowers in the window boxes. It looked out onto the canal, which was also home to a few well-appointed houseboats. “Nice neighborhood,” remarked Greg, archly. "Not yours, though, is it?”

“No.”

“Friends of yours, then?”

“Yeah, in a manner of speaking.” Victor said, but that was all he said, and for the moment at least, Greg knew to leave well enough alone. He busied himself with unpacking the bike.

Victor took the stairs that led up to the front door two at a time. He looked under the welcome mat, and then swept his hands over the doorframe, emitting a disappointed groan.

Greg looked up, with a sly grin. “No key?”

“Shut up.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Greg teased, “did your friends happen to know we were coming?”

“Theoretically, yes,” Victor said, ignoring the teasing and squinting up at the wide windows above.

“Maybe we should just, you know, get a hotel?” Greg said, joining him on the porch. “Can’t be that expensive, and I do have some money, if you—“

“No!” Victor said, emphatically. “This will be better. I’m sure they left a key somewhere. I’d pick the lock, but I, umm,” he paused, embarrassed, “Don’t want to fuck up their door.”

At that, Greg could’ve sworn he saw a bit of a blush rise at the Yank’s throat, an oddly stirring thought, imagining the flush of blood underneath that golden skin, the taste of him from their roadside tryst still lingering on the biker’s lips. Suddenly, all Greg wanted was to _get inside that door_. “Since when are you afraid of a little damage?” he challenged.

That got Victor’s attention. He stopped and slid his eyes to the man beside him. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to read belligerent fucks like Greg – the defiant eye contact, the lifted chin, the shallow breath, and the realization that oh, fucking hell, this little shit was cruising for trouble. Victor practically pounced. “Oh, you’re just gagging for it, aren’t you?”

 Greg didn’t blink. “Bloody right I am. I’ll pick the lock myself, if I have to.”

“You delinquent,” Victor perked, amused. “You pick locks?”

Greg shrugged, modestly. “With a bump key, yeah. We used to use jigglers at the garage  -- keys get locked in cars all the time – until the set got nicked, and then we all made bump keys. It was fun.” He reached into his pocket, and held his key chain aloft, showing off the roughly hand-filed bump key. “Regular doors can’t be much harder to get into than cars, can they?”

Victor took the key and turned it over in his hands. “I’m impressed, Road Rash. You want to give it a shot?”

“Fuck yeah!” Greg crowed.

“This, I gotta see.” Victor said, throwing the keys back to Greg. “You got something to knock it with?”

 “One minute,” he said, and dropped to his knees, ripping open the velcro on his emergency tool kit. Greg plucked a screwdriver from one of the compartments. “This’ll do the trick.”

“You quick with it?” Victor asked as Greg tested the door handle, and that’s when he moved in. “We can’t afford to draw attention, boy. Don’t want to make the neighbors…nervous.”

It was off-hand, Victor’s use of the word “boy”, a designation, a fishing expedition, really, which is the best part of playing with someone new. Seeing what worked and what didn’t…and Greg’s furrowed brow at its use – well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?

Victor crowded in a bit closer, ostensibly to shield his actions from the street, but they both knew the real reason. Greg licked his lower lip in concentration. “I’ll be quick,” he said.

“Better be,” said Victor, into his ear, low and dangerous – and _that_ definitely made the man’s breath hitch.

“You’re…distracting me, you arse.” Greg said, with only the slightest bit of a stammer as he tried slipping the key into the lock, missing it entirely on his first pass.

“That’s the whole point,” Victor said, and bit his ear, hard. “Now, open the fucking door.”

Greg positively squirmed… and then focused.

It took four quiet-as-he-could strikes of the screwdriver handle against the bump key before it turned, before the door swung wide and they both pressed inside, their mouths immediately on one another, more desperate than either of them had expected, really, and they nearly knocked over the foyer table in their grappling.

“The pack,” Greg gasped, when they came up for air. “It’s still on the porch.”

“Get it, then,” the other man hissed, and Greg did as he was told.

In the biker’s brief absence, Victor paced the room, knowing he needed to slow this shit down, get hold of himself before they got upstairs and the real fun began. No need to rush it, especially the first time. Firsts were meant to be savored. He exhaled, and looked around this once-familiar room.

They were in the foyer, a small, stylish entryway. The walls were dark, and the room’s solitary furnishing was the expensive-looking entry table right at its center. A steep, winding staircase led up into the house. Many a drunk night had been spent negotiating those ridiculously tall, shallow steps…

“Who is ‘ _Moederneuker’?”_ Greg asked, his return knocking Victor back into the present.

“Hmm?”

“The envelope,” Greg said, with a nod to the table.

“I’m guessing that would be me,” Victor replied, a broad smile breaking out on his face, and explained. “ _Moederneuker_ is Dutch for ‘motherfucker’.”

Greg laughed, and watched as Victor grabbed the envelope, ripped it open and emptied the contents – a key, a note and what looked suspiciously like two joints -- onto the table. He picked up the note and read, in poorly-pronounced Dutch:

  

 

“ _**Kon het niet laten testen u voor oude tijden sake.  
Dat gezegd hebbende, als je mijn deur brak zal ik je kont schoppen.  
Drink niet al mijn neuken Jack. -D **_ "

  


 

“So what’s all that mean?” Greg asked.

”‘Don’t drink all my fucking Jack’,” Victor grinned. “See, I told you they knew we were coming!”

Greg looked unimpressed. “How is that proof? Do you drink Jack?”

“Oh my god, we really don’t know one another.” Victor said with a shake of his head.

“I know one thing,” Greg said, nodding in the direction of those stairs. “Somebody was drunk when they built that thing.”

“And these aren’t that bad, compared to some I’ve seen,” Victor explained. “Dutch stairs are fucking insane. In the 17th century people were taxed on the width of their homes. So they built narrow and tall, which didn’t leave enough room for a normal damn staircase. Going down is harder than going up, but going up still has a learning curve. My first visit to a canal house, I had to get on my hands and knees...”

He leaned back then, into the doorframe, and considered Greg for a long, thoughtful moment before deliberately removing Greg’s pack and toolkit from his shoulder and placed it onto his own.

“What? Mate, I got it,” Greg protested. “I can carry my own shit.”

(Sometimes, you see, Greg isn’t very quick on the uptake.)

Victor shook his head, replying with just one word: “Strip.”

The word went through Greg like an electrical charge. The room tilted slightly and his throat had gone dry. Strip here? Now? Was there any guarantee they were even alone in the house? But in spite of all his questions, Greg simply shed his coat and dropped it on the floor.

“Hook, please.” Victor said, directing his attention to a small hook in the wall, beside the door. Greg picked up the coat and placed it carefully on the hook. His eyes flickered up at Victor for approval. He granted him a single nod. “Now the rest, everything but your pants. Meet me upstairs when you’re done.”

And before Greg had fully realized what was happening, Victor pocketed the key and the joints, and disappeared upstairs.

 

*****

 

Five minutes later, a mostly-naked Greg found himself at the top of the winding stairs, on the lavish main floor of the house. The décor here was luxe, modern styling interrupted with the occasional bit of dramatic whimsy - a decorator's take on what a Hollywood actor's flat would look like, Greg imagined, and he couldn't help but wonder – again -- whose house this really was.

Victor was nowhere to be seen, so Greg passed through the sunken living room and tentatively called out his name. A rumbled response came from somewhere below. Looking out over the balcony, Greg nodded to the figure below. "Be right down," he said, and then took a moment to sort out the route to get there.

He eventually found a short service ramp that led down to the kitchen, which led out into the dining area and eventually, to a small sitting room, far more formal than the sunken den near the entrance. The walls were white, the furnishings minimalist, and the room dominated by formidable, black staircase. This was not formidable in the same sense as the winding, makeshift, centuries-old stairs below, although they were just as steep – these were solidly-built, modern, sleek and utterly terrifying.

Victor sat in one of the two leather wingback lounge chairs that faced the staircase, smoking one of the joints and unabashedly staring at the man in front of him. His lingering, indecent gaze reminded Greg just how very close to naked he was, and how completely clothed Victor had remained. Up until this point, the two of them had grappled through clothing, and even when cocks had been bared, they’d remained mostly dressed. Greg had never felt so vulnerable as he did in this moment, naked before a man who was a stranger not eight hours earlier.

As for Victor, well, he couldn’t help himself from staring. Without clothes, Greg was corded and taut, fit in a different way than Victor was. Greg was leaner, and his muscles were not muscles grown in a gym, they were smaller, tighter, less for show and more for use. They were muscles acquired from work, from stretching and tensing beneath engines, from hefting tires and lifting bikes. Inevitably, his eyes drifted down to Greg’s distended black boxer-briefs.

“Take them off.” Victor challenged, his voice gone to gravel, Greg’s first clue that Victor was just as gone as he was. Greg’s fingers intentionally hesitated, teasingly, at his waistband. He wasn’t sure how all of this worked, but certainly part of it was testing limits…

“Now," intoned Victor, firmly, and Greg complied, pulling the fabric down and off.

Victor’s eyes swept the other man’s body from head to toe, lingering on his cock for a moment before he stood up and snapped his fingers, once, uttering a phrase that, from the little Victor knew, would most likely garner an angry response: "Here, boy."

The words had the desired effect, and Greg bristled. "I'm not your dog."

"Would you prefer 'bitch'?" Victor smiled, amusing himself. "A dog is a dog is a dog, after all, Road Rash."

Greg looked away, working his jaw, uncomfortable. "One nickname is enough, don't you think?"

"Whatever you say, sweetheart. But we both know, whatever name I use, you'll still come when I call." Victor replied brashly, relishing the other man's discomfort. "So, let's try again, shall we?" He said, and snapped his fingers a second time. "Here, _Greg_. And bring your pants with you."

The Brit bit the inside of his cheek, conflicted, the need to resist paired with the desire to impress, the ache in his cock breaking the tie. In the end, he complied, feeling propelled forward by something he didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

“Well done, Road Rash,” Victor hummed, and indicated the chair beside him. “Sit.”

Greg hadn’t been expecting that, but he nonetheless took a seat, perching on the edge of the cushion. The leather was cold on his bare skin.

Victor watched him, and lifted the joint to his mouth once more. “Now: you said you don’t smoke. Were you telling the truth?”

“No.” Greg admitted, and Victor smiled. _Already willing to give up secrets._

“Do you want some?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Up to you.” Victor said. “I’d never tell a sub to take drugs.”

“I’ll hold off for now, then.”

“Alright, then.” Victor murmured, and shifted position. “And you’ve never played like this before?

Greg shook his head. “Not like this, where it’s all, I dunno, structured and out in the open. I’ve had girls hold me down, but that’s been, you know, in the heat of the moment.”

“Okay, so some grounds rules, then: First, I’m not a villain and you’re not a victim, am I understood?” Victor exhaled a stream of smoke as Greg nodded. “Everything I do is for our mutual enjoyment, even though mine will often come first.”

Greg’s cock thickened. Of course Victor’s pleasure would come first. As it should be. _Fuck…_

“I’ll push you, but I’ll never hurt you,” Victor continued. “If I do, or if you ever feel uncomfortable in any way, safeword out, got it?”

Greg nodded.

“Okay. I hardly know you, but I do know you like the idea of people watching you, would you say that’s true?”

 _“Fuck…”_ Greg groaned, pressing his legs together.

“I’ll take that as an enthusiastic ‘yes’, ” Victor grinned. “but we’ll try other things as well -- if you don’t like them, let me know by telling me just like you did when I called you ‘boy’.”

Realization dawned on Greg. “That was a test.”

“A small one. Sometimes it’s more fun to deduce things rather than ask right out.” Victor spit on his fingers and touched them to the end of the ash, placing what was left of the joint in the ashtray for later. “Come here, then,” he said, and Greg moved to the front of the other man’s chair. Victor pulled him down for a kiss, pulling him until Greg was kneeling between his legs, their mouths growing steadily more desperate. Victor ran an appreciative hand along Greg’s chest and down to his belly, to his cock, and the man let out a relieved moan.

“Please,”

“Please what, Greg?”

“Please…don’t stop…doing that.”

Victor tugged sharply at his hair. “But I can think of lots of other things we can do, can’t you?”

Greg nodded once more, and reached for the back of Victor’s neck, pulling him down and pawing at the front of his jeans.

“That’s certainly one, but not now.” Victor reprimanded, slapping at his hands.

“For fuck’s sake, if not now, when?”

“Impatient little shit, aren’t you?” Victor reprimanded, and gently shoved him backwards. “Mouthy, too. Go get your pants.”

Greg eagerly did as he was told, retrieving them like the grown pup he was.

 “Open,” Victor said, and astonishingly, Greg did.

Victor balled the pants in his fist and pressed the cloth gently into Greg’s mouth. Greg could taste the salt in them, semen too, both his and Victor’s. He bit into it to feel the resistance of the fabric, because it felt good, felt right. He imagined what they must look like, he and Victor, and the thought made this compliance feel oddly like defiance -- against his friends, to his father, to the world outside that door, and his mind reveled in that thought.

In here, the rules were different.

“If you need to safeword, spit out the gag. Got it?” Victor asked, and Greg mumbled agreement through his fabric.

“Good,” said Victor. “What I want you to do is so simple, Greg, even babies can do it.”

Greg’s eyes lifted, curiously.

Victor lifted his eyes, as well, to the top of the staircase. “The bedroom is just up those stairs. If you really want to bottom for me, Greg, Ill fuck you into the mattress, but first, you need to show me what I’m getting.” His hands reached down to stroke Greg’s cock again, and the boy nearly fell apart.

“First, Greg, I want to watch you crawl.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
> I’m such a fucking tease. Perhaps someone needs to knock me down a peg or two… ;-p
> 
>  
> 
> \- This Chapter’s Follower Tease – [The Final Staircase](http://www.amsterdamapartments.com/var/apartment/photo/big_d6df074afabe432c4fddc7417178117f.jpg)!
> 
> \- The exterior of the Canal House ([wide](http://findassets.s3.amazonaws.com/datas/8439/large.jpg?1383211376) and [closer](http://www.letsbookhotel.com/img/max300/586/5867319.jpg))!
> 
> \- [The inside of the Canal House](http://www.amsterdamapartments.com/apartment/falck-loft-apartment-amsterdam/photos.html) (some elements were modified for the fic) 
> 
> \- [The leather wingback chairs (with table)](https://www.1stdibs.com/furniture/seating/lounge-chairs/pair-of-danish-leather-wingback-chairs-one-footstool/id-f_919839/)
> 
> \- [Crazy](https://dutchculture.wordpress.com/2011/11/07/the-dutch-stairs/) [Dutch](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JUwcwSJfx7k/TdtoDfRcThI/AAAAAAAAAPM/Yr3sLZb_9fU/s1600/stairs.jpg) [stairs](http://polaroidmondays.blogspot.com/2014/06/death-trap.html)!
> 
> \- What the hell’s a [“jiggler”](http://www.lockpickshop.com/SJG-10.html?gclid=CNXmvLaI0MMCFRckgQodM1IAew)?
> 
> \- [How to pick a lock with a bump key](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WpH_t0u5Ybg)
> 
> \- If you didn't feel like waiting around for the hover note, per Google translate, the note reads:
> 
> "Could not resist testing you for old times sake .  
> That said, if you broke my door , I will kick your ass.  
> Do not drink all my fucking Jack! -D"
> 
> (BTW, apologies to any actual Dutch-speaking readers for the likely mangled-by-Google translation, but it's still better than I could do! Please let me know if it's incorrect!)
> 
> -[Swear like a Dutchman](http://www.vnutz.com/curse_and_swear/dutch)
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> See you in two weeks! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	13. 9:18am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time won’t crawl, but Greg will.

**"MDMA enhances physical sensations."**

[A Rough Guide to Ecstasy](http://www.urban75.com/Drugs/e_guide.html)

**9:18am**

There’s a part of Greg that wishes he could say how difficult it was to crawl.

That getting down on all fours wasn’t easy to do.

That allowing himself to be directed, to be examined, to be visually taken apart by anyone -- much less by another bloke -- was degrading.

But it wasn’t.

It really fucking wasn’t, and that fact? Spun him. _Hard_.

The moment his hands touched the floor, he felt the embarrassment rush over him, overwhelmed by his own compliance. Normal men would’ve refused the American’s command, aughed at it, maybe, or straight-up punched the man who suggested it. Normal men wouldn’t be feeling the cold marble against the palms of their hands, and normal men most certainly wouldn’t be aroused by it.

There in the middle of the floor, in the middle of a strange house, in the middle of an even stranger city, Greg Lestrade was forced to face the fact that his whole normal life was a big fucking lie.

Because the truth was, he wasn’t a regular guy, he wasn’t average – and he never admitted to himself until that moment how much he worked to make it appear like he was. He was so fucking good at it, too. It helped to appear dimmer than he was. Beer down the pub, video games, football on the telly, girls…and not just girls, but simple ones. The clever ones, well, they eventually caught on, and then they had to go. The morning after Michelle held him down, he’d broken it off, terrified of what it all meant. Fiona and her box of toys went on longer than it should’ve, but he still eventually broke with her, on the off-chance that her discretion couldn’t be counted on.

Because Greg was fucking normal, alright? Bikes and cigarettes and he wasn’t at all interested in this pervy shit, or in the occasional guys that would drop off their cars for repair. So what if I liked this man’s coat, or that one’s ride, or if he happened to notice the way his jeans fit. Greg liked _girls,_ therefore he must be _straight_ – and more than straight.  Fucking _normal,_ and as vanilla as it gets.

It was what was expected. It’s what his friends, his family, his fucking father expected.

And then he met Emma. She’d seen right through him, right from the start, and just thinking about her gave him gooseflesh. The way she’d pressed up against him in the hallway that first night, her fingers pressing into his wrist, delicate but strong. “Behave,” was all she’d said, and he was gone, utterly and completely. When he went back to the table and got his loud and rowdy friends under control, she’d smiled.

They rarely spoke, but after that, things were different. He would order one thing and she’d bring another. His friends just chalked it up to her being a bad waitress, but he knew what she was doing, and he would dutifully eat whatever she put in front of him. One night, she caught him smoking outside the restaurant, and she just frowned, knitted her brows together, shook her head, and so he stopped…well, not entirely, truth be told, but he never did smoke again at that restaurant. And then there was the time he broke a dish – knocked it over with his forearm when describing a footie match to his mates and cut the hell out of his finger while picking up the pieces. She took him into the backroom for a plaster, and crossly tended to his cut, giving his hair a sharp tug before whispering “You really must be more careful with my things.” To this day, he still wasn’t sure if she was referring to the dishware or himself. 

He’d given her his number when she asked, but she never called – but why would she? He didn’t deserve her.

Then again, he didn’t deserve Victor, either, but he was different. The situation was different. And even though it was different, it didn’t stop him from thinking of Emma, and wondering what it would be like if she’d given him the command to crawl instead of Victor.

Either way, the command was a relief.

Giving in.

Letting go.

Surrendering control. 

“Head down, Greg,” Victor said, “and head for the stairs.”

He lowered his head, so far down that he could feel the cold of the marble against his cheek. He knew what he must look like, arse in the air, knees wide, humbled, every bit of him exposed to the air, to Victor’s gaze. The muscles in his arms, in his thighs, flexing, tensing with every vulgar, swinging move of his hips and fuck if the shame of it all wasn’t pushing him farther, deeper into himself. Time stilled. Greg crawled. It was quiet enough to hear the clock on the wall tick, as the distance to the stairs slowly shrank…

If he tilted his head in just the right way, Greg could see Victor behind him, legs sprawled out in front of him, the way they had been in prison, but here his hands played lush and lazy over the front of his jeans. His head was cocked to the side, curiously watching the spectacle that Greg had become.

And Greg was a spectacle, wasn’t he? His face burned, and he wondered how many people Victor had seen in this exact position, perhaps in this exact room. He wondered about this elusive “D” who owned the flat and tried hard not to think about videocameras or internet porn sites. It should be noted that none of these thoughts were enough to actually stop Greg, none of them made him stand up, put on his clothes and walk out the front door. Instead, he simply crawled on, and when he reached the staircase, he stalled, unsure and uncertain what he was supposed to do next.

“Continue up the stairs,” came the voice from behind him. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

He heard Victor rise from his chair, heard the sound of the man’s boots against the marble tiles as Greg mounted the black staircase, moving first his hands, then his knees, awkwardly angling up to climb the steep steps. Greg couldn’t imagine anyone looking graceful doing this…you’d have to be incredibly long-limbed and lithe, like, like…

 _…_ V _ictor’s very tall, very thin friend in the black wool coat…_

Yes, thought Greg. A man like that would undoubtedly scale these steps with all the poise of a bloody gazelle, not struggle and heft like the clumsy mess Greg was.

“You’re doing fine...”

The voice was closer, and Greg turned his head to see Victor’s boots at the base of the stairs, just at the edge of his peripheral vision. Weakly, Greg laughed. “You sure? I feel a bit like a baby elephant.”

“You don’t look like an elephant,” Victor quipped. “The way your muscles move when you take on each stair, its beautiful. In fact, take it even slower, Greg, I want to see each one work…”

Greg flushed again under the praise. Victor’s words, along with his proximity making Greg’s cock begin to weep in earnest. He closed his eyes, lost in that moment, and then opened them again, continuing his path, this time as slowly as he could, picking his way up the staircase, feeling each muscle set engage. To his horror, Greg quickly realized that he was also leaving a visible, shiny trail of wetness along the black matte staircase, marking his path, like the filthy little fuck that he was. His face burned…

“Stop.”

All told, there were eight steep steps in this staircase. When Victor stopped him, Greg’s knees were on the fourth step, his hands were on the fifth, and he’d stopped being aware of the coldness of the floor. He stopped being aware of anything other than his own desire and the eyes that still remained on him, taking in every shameful detail. He heard the creak of the lower step, the sound of Victor’s boots on the hard wood, felt the vibration as the man charged the staircase, and he waited for a touch that didn’t come.

Victor started off sweetly: “If I was a patient man, Greg, I’d escort you upstairs, spread you out lovingly on the mattress, gently work you loose with my finger and let your first official buggery take place in Super King-size bed comfort. But,” Victor said, his tone shifting and his foot nudging Greg’s legs wider apart, “I’m not feeling particularly patient right now. For hours and hours I’ve waited...”

Greg didn’t answer. He was beyond words, now, bracing his forehead against the stair - but when Victor told him to spread his cheeks, he did so quickly and without question.

“Well,” said Victor, with a low whistle _,_ “That was worth the wait.” Greg was tight, that was obvious just from looking, perhaps _virginally_ tight -- and Victor wondered if the biker’s adventures in pegging hadn’t been exaggerated. With a curious expression, Victor placed the tip of his boot against that vulnerable entrance, and _pressed_ …  

Now, the toe was far too rounded to actually enter him, but still Greg froze, panicked at the thought that Victor would press harder, and even more disappointed when he didn’t. Impulsively, Greg pressed backwards, just enough to feel the rough edge of the boot’s sole dig between his flesh.

“Looks like I’m not the only impatient one,” Victor said approvingly, “Tell me, Road Rash, after the girlfriend with the toys, did you ever invest in any toys of your own?”

Greg shook his head, blushed again, and continued to grind against Victor’s boot.

“No?” Victor asked, curiously. “So what did you do, then, Greg? What did you do, when it was late at night, in your bedroom, in the dark? What did you use to stretch and fill yourself?” He asked, but Greg’s only response was an involuntary shiver.

“Use your words,” chastised the American. “I asked you a question. If you can’t speak to answer a question, you can’t speak to safeword. What did you use?”

There was a moment of delay before Greg could find use of his tongue again. “M-my fingers,” he said, ashamedly.

“Your fingers?” Victor said, almost as if he were humoring the other man. Greg just moaned in response, pressing harder against his boot until Victor finally took it away, in mock irritation. He sat down on the stair beside him, and took a closer look at that tight entrance. “I’d very much like to see that, Greg.”

“Right here?”

“Yes,” Victor nodded, and pointedly placed a bottle of lube on the step. “And right now.”

 

**9:25am**

One tentative finger eventually became three eager ones.

One mouth found another and collided…

_“I won’t be long.”_

_“You’ll be as long as I say.“_

_“Oh, god…”_

_“God’s not here. Name’s Victor, pleased to meet you.”_

**9:32am**

Sweat beaded against flushed skin.

A touch turned to a slap turned to a tongue in a very dear place…

_“That’s—“_

_“What?”_

_“…oh, fuck…that’s feels…but you shouldn—”_

_“Shut up, Greg.”_

**9:38am**

Calloused hands ran rough along a corded expanse of back.

Hips pulsed against the air, begging for a stroke that just…wouldn’t…come.

_“Not yet.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I said.”_

_“Because you said.”_

**9:44am**

Hair tangled in a tight fist, and tugging hard.

Swollen lips pressed hard against flesh, the hollow of a neck, the base of a spine…

_“Fuck me…”_

_“Ask nicely.”_

_“Please, Victor!”_

_“See? Manners will get you everywhere.”_

**9:46am**

A generously slicked palm slipped over condom and cock.

Thick anticipation and the inevitable catch of breath…

_“Good?”_

_“Bet-better than good.”_

_“Sure I shouldn’t stop?”_

_“Stop now and I’ll fucking kill you.”_

**9:51am**

Arched back, muscles strained, pace desperate.

Whimpers turned gutteral when the well-timed strokes finally came…

_“That’s it. Fuck…”_

_“Fast…”_

_“Too fast?”_

_“Remember who you’re talking to…”_

**9:56am**

Over and over and over, careening, colliding, at long last crashing.

Surrendering, shuddering, breathless and close…

_“Can’t believe I waited 26 years to do that.”_

_“Gimme ten minutes and we can do it again.”_

_“Well, then. God bless America…”_

_“…and God save the Queen.“_

****

**3:32pm**

Victor opened his eyes -- unfamiliar bed, too-bright sun streaming through the window, juxtaposed with the welcome comfort of a warm body beside him.

 _D’s bed…Amsterdam…Greg_.

He smiled. Today had been a good one and tonight would be even better, but right now, his mouth was dry and he had to piss – which was not surprising, considering the amount of water they’d drunk before finally falling into bed. Yes, they _had_ eventually made it up the stairs to the master suite, to its Super King-sized mattress, its goose-down pillows and its near-weightless duvet keeping them warm – while at the same time, keeping the world far, far away.

 _But not nearly far enough_ , he thought, reality and sobriety slipping through for a moment, but just for a moment. After a few affectionate strokes of Greg’s hair, he reluctantly got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

 _Today had been a good one,_ he thought, with no small amount of determination, _and tonight will be even better._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> I don’t know about you, but I need a nap, preferably under a cozy duvet…  
> Spare notes today, as not much (ahem) technical research needed for this chapter…
> 
>  
> 
> \- I’d be lying if I said this chapter wasn’t in large part inspired by [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trPe1i9RE0c) (minus the non-con)
> 
> \- [The Art of The Crawl](http://www.thekinkrealm.com/article/i-love-the-way-you-crawl/)
> 
> \- What’s a “Super King”? (Hint: [Still smaller than an American King](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bed_size#UK_and_Ireland_sizes))
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!
> 
> See you in two weeks! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	14. 4:03pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take time out for shwarma!

 

“ **A Word of Caution:**  Taking 5-htp may make you feel normal again more quickly after taking MDMA.

This may tempt you to take MDMA more often than you would have otherwise.” 

[ **Source: dancesafe.org** ](http://dancesafe.org/drug-information/ecstasy-and-depression/)

 

**4:03pm**

_He was on his bike, riding into a rainstorm without his helmet, shaking his head to try and get the water out of his eyes, but the rain was persistent, driving and…_

“The fuck, dude!?”

Greg sat up, shaken from his dream and suddenly wide awake – or rather, he _tried_ to sit up, but with a 12-stone Yank straddling his waist, he wasn’t having much luck. Victor grinned above him, fresh from the shower and soaking wet, shaking his wet mop of hair in Greg’s general direction.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“I was sleeping, you arsehole.”

“I’m well aware. Speaking of, how is yours?”

“Empty,” Greg said, archly, but Victor was having none of his loaded flirtation.

“Really, Greg? Is that suitable breakfast conversation?” Victor said in mock disapproval. He hopped off the bed and placed a tray in front of him, delivering a rapid recitation of its contents: “95 mgs of caffeine, 180 mgs of Vitamin C, 100 mgs of hydroxytryptophan, and 60 ounces of H2O.”

Greg snorted. “Translation:  a cup of coffee, a cup of orange juice, some dodgy-looking herbal pills and a fuckload of water.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” Victor shrugged. “Consider it the chemist’s hangover cure. We gotta restore your seratonin, dopamine and norepinephrine reserves if we’re gonna have more fun later. This, plus actual food, will go a long way toward doing that.”   

Greg perked. “Actual food?”

“Like you’ve never eaten before in your life,” Victor promised. “But first, disappear this tray – and yes, including all of the water. I’m going to get dressed.”

Greg groused, but dutifully chugged a third of the water bottle as he watched Victor disappear into the walk-in closet. He felt foggy, as if he’d been sleeping for a long, long time, and for a few minutes, he just sat there, drinking and listening to the sounds of Victor rummaging through the closet before it dawned on him. “Wait – are you stealing your friend’s clothes?”

“D’s clothes? Not exactly my style, sweetheart.” More rummaging and the sound of hangers slipping on the rod. “No, I’m stealing my own clothes,” explained Victor, “I keep a few things here and there, just in case.”

Greg was about to ask how many bolt-holes he had and how it happened that he had so many accommodating friends with such spare closet space, when Victor emerged from the walk-in, fully clothed.

When he did, he damn near took Greg’s breath away – but it was hardly the clothes that made this man.

The clothes that Victor wore most often were cheap designs in disagreeable colors or unfortunate patterns, often made of unpleasant man-made materials. Call them thrift store cast-offs, garments doomed to the Goodwill clearance bin, clothing that was only redeemed by his wearing. On that day, he wore a 70’s-style dark brown shirt with white stitching, faux pearl snaps instead of buttons and epaulets - fucking _epaulets_ , for fuck’s sake. Put it on anyone else in the world and they’d look like a member of the Brady Bunch, but on Victor…well, the shitty 70’s nylon clung to his chest and arms in a really ridiculously hot way, and the fact that the clothing was, well, awful, seemed to impart an added carelessness, like the man knew he didn’t even _have_ to try.

He pretended not to notice Greg staring. “I brought your bag from downstairs, but feel free to borrow something if you want.”

Um, maybe?” Greg paused. Unlike Victor, he _had_ packed for this trip, but it was mostly underwear and socks, and an unremarkable series of band t-shirts.

“Well, we are the same size - height, anyway.” Victor said, and threw a bundle of clothing in his direction. “Help yourself, if you like." Greg picked cautiously through the outlandish vintage attire, sifting out a pair of black jeans and a thin, long-sleeved wool jumper, in charcoal. He held it up for Victor to see.” Bit simple for you, isn’t it?”

“A present from someone not yet accustomed to my style. Too tight for me now, but, uh,” His eyes swept Greg before giving an approving growl. “It should fit you like a goddamned glove.”

Greg’s stomach flipped, but Victor moved to the door. “So. Shower. Dress. Finish your orange juice, then we’ll go have dinner. And Greg?”

“Yeah?”

He paused. “Resist the temptation to cum in the shower.”

Greg dutifully nodded.

“Good,” Victor smiled. “I’d hate to have to punish you before we even leave the house.”

 

****

**4:40pm**

 “Shoarma, shawarma, showarma, shwarma, Doner Kebab, it’s all the same thing,” explained Victor, while they took a seat at the counter, their plastic baskets full of tinfoil-wrapped goodness. “But you really can’t get it anywhere outside Holland, believe me, I’ve tried.”

Shwarma is to Amsterdam as hot dogs are to New York, and the shwarma shop that the boys stood in on that day was typical – not particularly atmospheric, slightly worn, with everything looking a little bit blue beneath the fluorescent lights.

“Dude, it’s just a gyro.”

“Shut your mouth!” reprimanded Victor in not-so-mock horror. “Actually, no, open your mouth and taste it. Then you tell me if it’s a gyro.”

Shwarma starts with stacks of lamb piled onto a spit – but unlike the pressed mystery meat used for gyros, shwarmas are made with actual cuts of seasoned lamb, the meat roasting on the spit all day long. When a sandwich is ordered, meat is shaved off the spit and then chopped into small pieces, which are then put under a broiler to further roast, the edges crisping under the flame. A warm piece of pita bread is then filled with these bits of broiled goodness, topped with salad and chopped tomatoes and cucumber, and covered in tzatziki sauce.

Skeptically, Greg lifted the sandwich to his mouth and took a bite.

A moment later, the sound that came out of his mouth equalled some of the noises he’d made earlier in the day.

Victor laughed. “See what I mean?”

“What the…how is that so good?” Greg bit into it again, and another groan fell out of his mouth. The cool of the sauce hit the garlic in the meat and mixed with the texture of the charred bits of meat, the tomatoes adding a spike of acid and the bread pleasantly filling his stomach, a perfect meal to eat before a night out. “Yeah, we’re going to need more of these.”

“Of course,” explained Victor, biting into his own sandwich. “And nothing’s better at the end of a night out.”

The shop was fairly quiet, but enjoyed a decent takeaway business considering the hour, with tourists and Amsterdammers alike lining up for the Mediterranean fare. Behind the counter, an East Indian teenager waited on customers, packing up Styrofoam containers, flicking the tinfoil with an expert flick of the wrist.

“You’ve been here before, then?”

“What, this shop?”

“Yeah. You said there were thousands of shwarma shops in Amsterdam, but when we left the house, you made a beeline for this one.” Greg took a pull from his bottle of Heineken. “So, why this one, in particular?”

And at that precise moment, as if on cue, a voice boomed out from across the room.

“You lying, cheating scum of a chemist!”

Greg froze, looking around for the source of the accusation, but all Victor did was lift an eyebrow and say, “You ridiculous, rat-bastard enabler of drunks!”

There was a pause, and then laughter erupted, from Victor, from the voice behind them, and from the few other patrons of the shop. A moment later, the “scum of a chemist” was hugging the “enabler of drunks”, and they were both grinning from ear to ear.

“Greg, meet Max, Max, this is Greg.” Victor said, his arm around the short, squat man. Max was in his 70s, balding, and while all those things together would normally read as “harmless”, “genial”, or maybe even “sweet”, there was an edge to Max that immediately told Greg this was not a man to fuck with.  “Max has helped me out of a few jams. He’s a good guy.”

“Good to meet you.”

 “And you,” Max said, studying the biker’s face before turning to Victor. “So, the skinny _klootzak_ is out of the picture?”

Greg didn’t have to know Dutch to get the general gist, but Victor just shook his head. “No, he’s still around, he’s just…sitting this one out.”

“ _Als we geluk hebben_ , maybe this one will replace the other.” His eyes cut to Greg. “More beer?

 “Um, yeah. Of course.”

“Two more beers, Deja!” Max called out to the girl behind the counter, and slapped Greg on the shoulder before leaving to go about his business.

Thirty minutes later, the boys were still seated at the bar, finishing off their second shwarmas and working on their third round of beers. In Dutch, there’s an untranslatable word, “ _gezellig_ ”, which literally means “cozy” or “quaint”, but it’s also used to connote the good feeling that comes from spending time with a loved one, or seeing a friend after a long absence – and right now, for the boys, was a very _gezellig_ moment. It was warm where they were sitting, just across the counter from the spit, and they’d both had just enough beer to be dangerous. Happily, they’d also both had enough food to keep them lazy and content on their barstools.

“So, why does Max hate your friend so much?” Greg asked, his fingers messy with sauce.

“Max hates everyone. I love him, but give him enough time and he’ll hate you, too.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Sure he does,” Victor said, wiping his hands on a handful of thin paper napkins and balling them up, tossing them into the empty basket. “He just puts up with me because I’m a loyal customer.”

“That’s not true.”

“Nah, you’re right, it’s not.” Victor admitted, “He’s a tough cuss, that one, deserves respect. He survived Nazi occupation, he survived the Hunger Winter, he’s the shit. Opened a brown cafe when he was barely out of school, and when that place got edged out by another fucking hostel, he opened up this place across the street.”

“Seriously?” Greg turned to watch the small man wait on one of the few other customers in the shop. No wonder he had an edge.

“Yeah. Still keeps a baseball bat behind the counter to bash robbers with, you see?” He pointed at the worn-looking bat in the corner.

“Good for him,” mused Greg, and watched as Victor began pulling items out of his pockets, placing them on the counter: a blue pouch, a box of rolling papers, one of the disposable lighters from the convenience store.

Greg looked over his shoulder, scandalized. “Dude, I know it’s Amsterdam,” he said, in hushed tones, “but are you seriously getting ready to roll a joint in the middle of a restaurant?”

The other man removed a plug of something from a blue pouch and sprinkled it onto the paper. “Easy, copper, it’s just tobacco.”

“Why you calling me a copper?” knee-jerked Greg, sharply. “What would make you say that?”

“Settle down, I was just kidding,” Victor assured him. “And this? Is just tobacco. Dutch thing. D handrolls theirs, so there were no pre-rolled cigarettes in the house. There was, however, Drum tobacco, so, I figured, when in A’dam...”

“It looks like a joint.”

“Same principle, not as much giggling.” Victor said, concentrating on rolling the tobacco-loaded paper between his fingers until it was evenly distributed, and the paper took on the shape of a symmetrical cylinder. “You like filtered?”

“That’s for me?”

“Yeah. ‘course it is,” Victor smiled, and Greg beamed right back. “So, filter or no?”

“Well, filter usually, yeah, but this is fine.”

“No, no, no, I got you covered. You still got that empty Marlboro box in your pocket?”  Greg nodded and fished it out of his coat. Carefully, Victor tore off a dime-sized piece of the box and curled it into a tight spiral. “Now check this out,” he said.  He picked up the unsealed cigarette and rolled it once more before plucking the spiral of cardboard and placing it at one end of the cigarette.  A few more rolls to distribute the cigarette’s contents and it was ready to seal. He lifted it to his lips, licked the edge and pushed the paper closed. “And that’s all there is to it!” he presented the finished cigarette to Greg for approval.

Greg took it, impressed by Victor’s skill. “That’s pretty cool, but does it really work? The filter, I mean?”

Victor held up the lighter. “You tell me.”

Greg leaned in and inhaled, his body immediately relaxing, anticipating the nicotine fix. He’d braced himself for the sharp recoil of unfiltered smoke, but was pleasantly surprised. “Fucking hell, that little piece of cardboard actually works!”

Victor nodded. “Yep. First time I came to Amsterdam, this kid showed me how to do it. Little trick. DIY, man.”

Greg watched Victor repeat the cigarette-rolling process for himself, the graceful slip of the man’s fingers over the paper, nimble, practised, and he couldn’t help but remember the way they’d felt on him earlier in the day, similarly nimble, similarly practised. He pressed the thought away for a moment, knowing if he dwelled on it much longer, he’d drag the Yank straight into the loo – but he had more pressing matters at hand.

He started, awkwardly. “So, you stay in D’s house, smoke his tobacco—”

“—almost an accurate statement—“

“Fine, whatever, just…what’s the deal there?” Greg asked, pulling at the label on his bottle of beer.

“I told you. D’s a friend.”

“You have a lot of friends.”

“Problem, Greg?”

“It’s just curious. And D, at least, seems to be a friend of similar interests,” Greg said, knowingly, and leaned in, opening his jacket just enough for Victor to see inside the inner chest pocket, which contained a pair of handcuffs, slightly different-looking from the ones Greg had grown up seeing on his father’s hip.

Victor snorted. “Christ, where’d you find those?”

“Bathroom drawer. Was looking for a razor.”

“Naughty…” Victor said, amused, and pulled them out of Greg’s pocket, examining them before dropping them onto the counter. “Yeah, these are definitely D’s. Why’d you bring them?”

Greg shrugged. “Wanted to ask you about them. About D. Thought they might come in handy later,” he said, absently. “So, considering your similar predilections, is it safe to say that you and D…?”

“Are friends, Greg. No more, no less.” Victor shook his head. “Why are you so curious?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Greg asked, hushed. “I mean, considering what happened in the prison -- today, last night, whenever it was – I realised, we’re in this together now. ”

“Oh.” Victor paused, sat back, and looked Greg squarely in the face. “So, is this about being on the run, or are you laying some kind of claim?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Victor.” Greg said. “We just need to be honest with each other. I mean, we can’t be honest with anyone else, now, can we?”

Victor drained the last of his beer. “Deja, another round?”

“I’m just saying that this all feels like we’re on vacation, not on the run!” Greg said, seriously, his composure slipping with every word that followed. “I mean, we can’t go home anymore, do you get that, Victor? Is this our life now? Staying in a stranger’s house and having sex, getting drunk and just…hanging out? We can’t stay there forever, and I need clothes and…a job, and…to learn bloody Dutch, I don’t know!”

“Calm down, Greg,” Victor said, steadying him. The waitress deposited a fresh bottle of beer in front of them both. “Drink your beer.”

Greg ignored the command and ignored his urge to counter it with a command of his own.

Victor leaned in. “Look, neither of us have any idea what we’re doing. We’re both just playing this by ear, right? And in a day or so, I’ll make a few phone calls and see where we stand in the UK.”

“I can tell you where we stand. We broke out of prison, Victor, we are fugitives!” Greg picked up the handcuffs and began fiddling with the clasp before he realised the irony of what he was doing and pushed them away. “Fuck, this is ridiculous.”

“This is life, and this is going to be fine, one way or another.” Victor said, reassuringly. He nudged the cuffs on the counter. “But _this_ is not our future.”

“How can you say that? That’s pretty clearly in our future from what I can tell!”

“Okay, look,” Victor said firmly. “You’re right, I don’t know that. But I can hope like hell it isn’t. And I’ve got a good feeling about it, for what that’s worth. There’s simply nothing else either of us can do for now. The damage is done.”

 Greg meditated on his words, and took a sip from his bottle of beer. “Well, we can’t go back and change what we’ve done, that’s for sure.”

“Nope.”

Greg sat back in his chair. “I guess…all we can do is move forward, try to figure something out.”

“Yep. And maybe enjoy ourselves along the way. Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die, right?” Victor said, somewhat unconvincingly. “OK, forget I said die. ’Eat’ and ‘drink’ now, and ‘merry’ later tonight. Fuck dying.”

Greg laughed. “That is the worst motivational speech I’ve ever heard, you shit.”

“At least you laughed!”

“Yeah, I did,” Greg admitted, and took a drag from his cigarette, eyeing Victor. Fuck, he was handsome, Greg thought, and there were worse people to face an uncertain future with. As much as he’d like to, he knew he couldn’t blame Victor for any of this. He’d made the decision to follow the man into this madness, after all. No one had held a gun to his head. And since that moment, Victor had done everything in his power to protect him - that much was true.

And that didn’t even take into account the sex.

Greg cocked his head to the side, a shift in perspective. “Well,” he said, picking up the cuffs, “if we ever do end up in a pair of these, I’ve got us covered.”

Victor lifted an eyebrow, for the second time that afternoon. “Oh yeah?”

“Yep, “ confirmed Greg, “You showed me how to roll a cigarette, I’ll show you how to open handcuffs without a key.”

“Are you serious?” Victor laughed, his expression equal parts relief and delight. “You’re a man of unexpected talents, Greg.”

Greg winked. “Never underestimate me, mate.”

 

****

**6:23pm**

“How’d you learn to do this?”

Greg’s turn to be evasive – I mean, he wasn’t about to admit his connection to law enforcement now, was he? The fact that he’d spent a lifetime playing with his Dad’s handcuffs on their living room floor wasn’t relevant, not really, and a little lie wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He cleared his throat. “At the garage. Just another lock to open, you know? Hand me that piece of paper.”

“You guys were some criminally-savvy little grease monkeys, you know that?” Victor laughed, and handed him a flyer from the stack near the register. It advertised some band playing at some club on some Saturday night in the future.

Greg folded it in half and tore it neatly in two, folded it again and tore it in half once more. Finally, he doubled it on itself until he had a piece of paper about twice as wide and twice as thick as a gum wrapper.

“Okay, you with me so far?”

“Yeah, fold the paper, got it.”

“It’s gotta be thin enough to slip into this housing here, see, but thick enough to trip the mechanism.” Greg ran the piece of paper through the gate, then folded the two ends of the paper down for leverage and the latch popped free, easy as you please!

“Wait, no way!” Victor crowed, amazed. “That was way too easy, though. Let’s see you do it while it’s on your wrist, that’s the real trick.”

“Easy enough,” Greg shrugged, and held out his wrist. “Try me.”

Victor didn’t have to be asked twice. He pressed the metal around Greg’s wrist, but not before noticing the biker’s sudden, shy glance to nearby patrons and the tiny shiver that ran through him when Victor ratcheted the cuffs closed. “Too tight?” he breathed, and time slowed…

Greg shook his head. His pulse raced, and his fingers splayed out on the counter in front of him. A takeaway customer wearing a blue windbreaker gave him the side eye. Deja watched from her post with curiosity. Greg flushed.

Victor bit his lip and leaned in, murmuring “You like this kind of attention, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Greg spat, embarrassed.

“You do,” Victor said, matter-of-factly, his voice still low and right in Greg’s ear. “That’s the whole reason you put the cuffs in your pocket in the first place, wasn’t it? Wishful thinking, hoping I would cuff you in public like this.” His eyes dropped to the front of Greg’s jeans. “You’re shameless.”

Greg’s eyes went dark, and it was almost as if Victor could see the man just…recede.

“Tell me, Greg: where would you like me to draw the line with this public play?” Victor’s mouth grazed his jaw, just enough to tickle. “Because being hard and handcuffed in a restaurant is just a few degrees away from being taken hard and fast over this counter, in front of everyone here.”

“Goddamn, look, don’t…” Greg struggled, but not with the cuffs. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Victor mused, and bit his ear, quick. “Do the trick now, I want to watch.”

Victor handed him the sleeve of folded paper from before, and given a real-world task, Greg surfaced, returning to the here and now. With a slightly shaking hand, he guided the paper in place, and with only slightly more difficulty than before, the latch popped open with a satisfying click.

Greg looked up for approval, and Victor nodded. “Nicely done, Greg. You deserve a reward. Come to think of it, so do I.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the now-familiar plastic bag, removing two pastel-colored discs. “Dolphin or diamond?”

“I don’t care,” Greg said, thickly. “You chose.”

And with that, Victor popped one of the discs into Greg’s mouth and one into his own…

…and it all would’ve been perfectly _gezellig_ if the man in the blue windbreaker hadn’t chosen that precise moment to pull out a gun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> First off: THANK YOU for your patience – this chapter looked a great deal different last week and wasn’t half as much fun!
> 
> Second: What’s up next for our boys? Stay tuned until next time to find out! ☺
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
> \- [What’s 5-HTP](http://thedea.org/preloading.html)? _(Please note that links should NOT be considered to be endorsements of drug use, nor of any suggested treatments noted within. Writer is not a doctor, nor is she a miracle worker, Jim!)_
> 
> \- Victor’s [Brady Bunch shirt](http://www.rustyzipper.com/shop.cfm?viewpartnum=293844&backtorow=10&jumpshow=0&SIZE=&ERA=1970&TYPE=Shirts%20%2D%20Sport%20Shirts&SEARCH=&GENDER=Mens)
> 
> \- Greg’s [simple jumper](http://unionmadegoods.com/product/sunspel-vintage-wool-long-sleeve-jumper-in-charcoal-melange-2/) (borrowed from Victor)
> 
> \- [What most people think](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYiZeszLosE), when they think of [shwarma](http://ifanboy.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Shawarma.jpg).
> 
> \- [Dutch swear words, Part 2](http://www.youswear.com/index.asp?language=Dutch+%28Holland%2FBelgium%29#.VQWQwODHvpB)
> 
> \- Everything’s [gezellig](http://www.dutchamsterdam.nl/155-gezellig)! 
> 
> \- Not to bring the room down, but everyone should know about [the Dutch Hongerwinter (“Hunger Winter”)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dutch_famine_of_1944), the winter of 1944. I’d never heard of this particular nightmare until my last visit to Holland and saw an entire room dedicated to the memory of it in a museum. God bless all the people who survived – and yes, to survive, you’d really have to be “one tough cuss” like Max.
> 
> \- [Drum Tobacco](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drum_\(tobacco\)) (sold in the US by Sara Lee, how weird)
> 
> \- Cardboard filters: I didn’t find anything official online for these makeshift filters, but in 1988, my Canadian buddy Ian sat in a bar in Amsterdam with me and taught me proper rolling technique for handrolling tobacco cigarettes, including these filters (FYI, Marlboro boxes worked best!) 
> 
> \- Wanna know [how to break out of Dutch handcuffs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xx-xSaOp9Lo)?
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!
> 
> See you in two weeks! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	15. 6:29pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every good story needs an action sequence!

 

 

_**…MDMA produces an overall sense of well-being, a feeling of happiness edging on euphoria…The drug doesn't create happiness, though. It doesn't create anything. It merely unlocks feelings which are already present but held in check on a day-to-day basis.** _

[A Rough Guide to Ecstasy](http://www.urban75.com/Drugs/e_guide.html)

**6:29pm**

Everything…stopped.

(Not really, of course.)

In reality, it was pandemonium - the waitress screaming, her hands up behind the register, patrons scrambling over one another for safety, diving under tables and knocking over chairs – but to Greg, in that moment, the room went soundless. Movement slowed, suspended as if the lot of them were underwater, all of them, that is, except one:  the man in the blue windbreaker. He moved in real time, and his words, while in Dutch, were still audible. It was about focus, and it was something Greg instinctively began doing during bike races.

At the start of a race, he’d turn down the volume on everything else so he could focus his attention on one, precise thing: performance – the performance of the bike, his performance as a driver, _scan-identify-predict-decide-execute, engine’s hot, rear tire’s low, turn right, faster now, turn, no, turn harder, PUSH IT, go NOW!_   He got good at it, this game, and found himself falling into it even when he wasn’t on his bike – at school, with girlfriends, at dinners with his father –defocusing on the stuff that didn’t matter and focusing on the stuff that did –although with his Dad, it was less about diverting his attention _to_ something important and more about diverting it _away_ fromthe man’s seemingly endless stream of criticism.

However, on this day, in this moment, in this city and in this shop, that one, precise thing was the man in the blue windbreaker,

( _Skinny. Junkie maybe?_ thought Greg)

the way his teeth clenched, and the way he waved the gun,

( _BIG fucking gun_ )

waving the gun madly as he motioned for the girl to fill a bag with cash.

( _safety’s on,_ noted Greg, thinking of every action movie he’d ever seen, noting the slip of the switch.)

It was the calm before the storm. He turned his head. Victor to his right, halfway to his feet, in slow motion as well, his eyes locked. Max, standing unseen in the kitchen doorway, his lined hands gripping the bat, ready to swing.

( _big fucking gun, safety on, Victor locked, baseball bat, here we go_ )

He exhaled.

(OK)

And all at once, everything resumed.

Movement returned and the sound went to full volume: waitress screaming, customers scrambling, the man with the gun shouting, chaos and frenzy that should by all rights have ended with the solitary crack of Max’s bat against the thief’s skull, but instead ended when the bat fell to the ground, and its owner went down with it, slammed into the wall by the criminal.

( _Max down, safety on_ )

Victor’s path diverted, his face stricken, moving to Max’s side.

( _up to you, take him)_

Undeterred by Max’s attempt, the man barked at Deja and the bag was filled,

( _safety on, take him)_

the bag handles tied, tied in a knot by shaking hands.

 ( _now_ )

The gunman’s hands reaching out to take the bag, his attention on the bag…

( _now!)_

Greg launched himself into the air, tackling the criminal to the ground. The gun clattered to the tile floor, spinning, and Greg straddled him, landing a solid punch to the man’s jaw before he could squirm away, grabbing the bag, but leaving behind the gun.

“Shit,” Greg hissed, as the man ran out the door, cash in hand. Greg grabbed the gun, released the safety, jammed it into the waistband of his jeans and moved to the door. “Victor?”

The American looked up. “Right behind you.”

That was all Greg needed. He was out the door like a shot, catching sight of the blue windbreaker after a pulse-pounding moment on the street, scanning the crowd. What compelled him to grab that gun, to chase the criminal? It could have been a chemical response, but it couldn’t have been the X. That dose had barely been swallowed, much less metabolized, when the gun first appeared, after all – but the gun’s appearance _had_ made Greg’s body to begin pumping adrenaline, and that chemical, that rush, that sudden burst of energy, could have been what propelled him out that door without a second thought.

Well, that’s what he’d tell Victor, anyway, later on, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth.

The whole truth was, while adrenaline likely played some part, the real reason behind the biker’s pursuit wasn’t chemical at all: it was simply that Greg Lestrade had never been able to resist a race, not even a footrace. He adored the rush of competition, and in his mind, nothing, seriously _nothing,_ was better than winning.

And this race was proving to be a challenge. Max’s shwarma shop was on Oudebrugsteeg, a busy, narrow street just off the Damrak, the main thoroughfare through the city centre. The man in the blue windbreaker predictably headed for the Dam, pushing his way past tourists and locals alike, at a far faster pace than Greg had would’ve liked. His feet pounded against the rough cobblestones and the biker immediately regretted the decision to walk to the shop rather than ride. On the Venom, the thief would’ve been as good as caught. As it was, the odds were clearly in the criminal’s favor - without his bike, without a working knowledge of the city or an understanding of the various shortcuts and side streets, Greg’s only real hope was to try and outrun the man, at least until Victor caught up.

That happened sooner rather than later. At the intersection with the Damrak. Greg completely lost sight of the man in the blue windbreaker after an ill-timed delivery van temporarily blocked his view of the opposite side of the street. Greg searched the crowd, breathing hard, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Just when he was about to give up, Greg felt a hand on his shoulder.

“There.” Victor pointed, and Greg could have kissed him when he showed him where he was, standing on the curb, a block and a half away. Then, as now, the Damrak was a wide avenue that ran between Centraal Station to the north, and Dam Square to the south. The square was a broad stretch of pavement, a pigeon-filled plaza bordered by an unlikely trio of landmarks, each with high tourist appeal: the Dutch Royal Palace, Nieuwe Kerk church and Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. The man in the blue windbreaker was headed south towards the square, clearly hoping to lose himself in the crush of sightseers that populated it.

With no time to lose, Greg and Victor headed after the man together, dodging cars and bikes as they crossed the Dam.

It wasn’t long before the man in the blue windbreaker made it to the edges of Dam Square, and together, the boys watched him disappear into the crowd. Greg and Victor pushed on, hoping to catch flashes of him as he moved and hoping to make up for lost ground as he negotiated his way through the crowd. They were hoping for a lot of things, but what they hadn’t counted on was assistance from above…

Greg had been the first to notice. “Victor, watch,” said Greg, with a smile, pointing up into the air, at a sudden scattering of birds on the northern end of the square.

Victor caught on quickly, and he positively beamed. “Well, aren’t you clever?”

The man in the blue windbreaker’s presumed strategy, to get lost in the crowd in Dam Square overlooked one thing, or rather, hundreds of things: the pigeons. As the criminal fled, his quick movements spooked the birds that blanketed the plaza, sending a wide swath of them up into the air with his every step, a riot of flapping wings that clearly signaled his path to anyone that bothered to look up.

Victor watched the birds with amusement, and then realized where the man was going. “He’s headed to the canals,” he said, turning to Greg. “You stick with him, I’m gonna try and cut him off.”

Greg nodded, and watched Victor peel off to the right, onto Zoutsteeg. Greg pushed forward, tracking the movement of the pigeons whenever the blue windbreaker dodged out of his sight. As he exited the square to the southwest, past the church, Greg sped up, knowing that the birds wouldn’t be able to offer any further help. At the traffic-filled intersection of Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal, Greg very nearly caught up to the man, but before he could, the man ran blindly into traffic, dodging a truck by the skin of his teeth, and emerging on the other side of the road, on the concrete median strip. They were close enough to one another now that Greg could see the plastic bag of money, clutched tightly in his hand. He was close enough to see the smug expression on the man’s face, and it infuriated him. Max hadn’t been the most charismatic man Greg had ever met, but from what Victor had told him, he’d been through more than enough for one lifetime – he certainly didn’t need a punk like this screwing with his livelihood, pushing an 80-year-old man into a bloody wall, that son of a bitch. Greg gave chase, crossing the street with renewed purpose, and dug in, running down the island towards the man, in full pursuit.

But the man was showing any signs of surrender, and very few signs of slowing. Now that he was free from the pedestrian crowds of the Dam, the man was picking up speed, and Greg again regretted the lack of the Velocette Venom. The distance between them began to stretch, as Greg began to slow down, and that’s when Greg recognized another figure in the distance, one that was emerging from a side street at top speed.

Victor couldn’t help but spot them quickly, two lone figures, running along the median traffic rushing on either side of them. The light changed, and Victor crossed the street with ease, joining them on the strip. He ran toward the man in the blue windbreaker, effectively trapping the man between them. He had nowhere to go. They both closed in, each running towards him, and the man ran from one to the other for one panicked moment, looking for a way out.

Eventually, both men slowed their advance.

The man’s capture felt…inevitable.

Until…until the man made another suicide move into traffic, this time narrowly avoiding being hit by a taxi, then by a Citroen, then by a BMW SUV.  As car horns sounded and tires screeched to a halt, Greg and Victor watched from the median, holding their collective breath, grudgingly relieved when the man did not die on the road in front of them. Instead, he landed on the curb safely, just as the #5 Amsterdam Tram pulled to a stop directly in front of him, as if on cue – and all three men knew that this chase wouldn’t be over anytime soon.

 

****

 

**6:42pm**

He hopped onto the tram.

Of course he did.

Of course the man in the blue windbreaker accepted the ride that fate had so kindly dropped into his lap. He slouched into the first available seat, hoping and praying that the tram would drive off before Greg and Victor could cross the street.

Half of his prayers were answered.

Greg made it aboard at the last minute, but while Victor was only seconds behind Greg, the door slammed shut before he could board. Greg’s face fell, and he motioned for him to follow before turning to look for the blue windbreaker.

Out on the pavement, Victor slapped the outside of the tram in frustration. As it pulled away, the Yank let loose with a truly extraordinary string of expletives, both common and uncommon. His recitation was so extraordinary, in fact, that it drew the giggling attention of a rather charming group of Dutch teenagers who were loitering outside an Indonesian restaurant.

It wasn’t until he realized that the charming lovelies were crowded around an even more charming, bright pink Vespa that Victor opted to turn on the charm himself… 

 

****

 

**6:43pm**

Fact: There are very few places to hide in an Amsterdam tram.

Trams are bigger than a city bus, certainly – but they’re still not lengthy affairs, running about as long as two and a half underground train cars.  There’s a car in the front, a car at the end, and a bit in the middle where the tram conductor sits, for routes that have them.

Amsterdam Tram #5 did not have a conductor. If it had, perhaps the whole chase would’ve ended a lot earlier. But, it didn’t, so it wasn’t.

The moment Greg made it onto the tram, the man in the blue windbreaker was on the move, scrambling to the front of the car they shared. Early on a Saturday night, it was still too early for the nighttime crowds to completely fill these trams, but there were enough passengers that the man was able to move unnoticed, just as the doors closed on Victor. The man opened the door between the cars, and pushed his way into the vacant conductor’s area, hoping to reach the front car and exit at the next stop before Greg could catch up – but Greg saw the door open, caught the flash of blue, and advanced, knowing there were only so many places the man could go.

He was right.

In the conductor’s area, the man in the blue windbreaker shouted in frustration, when the door into the front car turned out to be broken, the latch jammed shut, turning the conductor’s area into a dead end.

“Stop!” Greg shouted as he entered the area, not realizing that the man was cornered.

The man ignored him, darting his eyes around the car, looking for an out.

“Give me the money,” Greg commanded, holding out his hand, at this point not even sure if the man understood English.

“Fuck off,” said the man, in lightly accented English, effectively putting that question to rest. There was dried blood on his chin, and his eyes darted to the moving landscape outside the tram window.

“Look, I’ve already hit you once, don’t make me do anything worse,” warned Greg, slowly moving forward, “Just hand us the money, alright?” He reached his hand to the small of his back, closing his fingers around the handle of the man’s gun, just in case. Maybe the man would respond to the threat of a gun in his face? To the threat of his own gun in his own face?

The man just continued to stare out the window, seemingly unmoved.

“I mean it.”

The man was now blatantly ignoring him.

 _Arsehole,_ Greg seethed, and then steeled himself. Greg’s father was an AFO, Greg, himself, had hunted with a rifle before, he wasn’t completely clueless when it came to firearms, he wouldn’t let it get out of hand. It was just a show of force, that’s all.

( _It’d also be fucking badass as hell,_ Greg admitted, at least to himself)

Quick as lightning, he removed the gun from his waistband and held the gun in front of him with both hands, just like in the films. “Give me the fucking money,” he growled, “and that’s the last time I’m gonna ask nicely.”

The man paused, and Greg was redeemed. If a man won’t listen to reason, he’ll sure as listen to the business end of a pistol, isn’t that right? “Right. Now just give me the bag or I’ll blow your bloody head off.”

The man tilted his head, considered the bag in his hand, gave a last look out the window, and turned to Greg with a hint of a smile on his face. Greg relaxed. It was over. The man was going to hand over the money, and Greg would _win_ – but just as he was envisioning a victory lap around the shwarma shop, the tram lurched to a stop, knocking Greg off-balance.

“Fuck _off_ ,” the man in the blue windbreaker said, with pointed emphasis, and exited the tram. “By the way, the safety is _on,_ you idiot.”

As soon as he’d regained his balance, Greg was right on his heels, not ready to give up, not now, especially not now. Out on the pavement, Greg watched the man slip into another tram, parked just in front of theirs, but like Victor before him, before Greg could follow him, the doors shut and the new tram pulled away. Greg stashed the gun back into his waistband, first sliding the safety in the opposite direction.

( _Some fucking badass I am_ …)

As the tram pulled into traffic, Greg felt immediately helpless, frustrated, positively gutted.

He’d lost him.

He’d let him get away.

_Well, fuck._

In his misery, Greg became vaguely aware of the sound of an engine behind him.

“Looks like somebody needs a lift.”

Greg turned, and if he weren’t so eager to resume the chase, he would’ve laughed for a thousand hours at the sight of Victor riding high atop a bright pink Vespa. “What the fuck did you do, Victor?”

Victor smirked. “Oh, I don’t know, made some plans, borrowed a bike, maybe saved the day?”

“Shut the fuck up, neither of us have saved anything…yet.” Greg said with a grin, and grabbed the handlebars, wedging himself in front of Victor, into the driver’s position. As he gunned the engine, he shook his head in amusement.

“It just had to be _pink_ , didn’t it?”

 

****

**6:51pm**

On the Vespa, Greg and Victor caught up to the tram with ease, trailing behind it as it approached the roundabout in front of Centraal Station. Without knowing whether the man in the blue windbreaker was even aware that he was still being followed, the boys sketched out a quick plan as they drove: when the tram stopped, the man in the blue windbreaker would only have two options: to either stay on the tram, or to get off, and the boys would be prepared for either option.

As they drove up, the sun was shining still, glass tour boats were moving in the canal waters in front of the station, students were playing hacky sack, visitors were arriving with luggage and all of it added this extra level of weirdness to the whole thing. The tram pulled to a stop, and as planned, Victor got off the scooter and hung back out of sight until the tram doors opened. He entered the back of the tram and pressed forward, in an effort to roust him the man out if he tried to stay on the tram. Meanwhile, Greg edged the bike near the tram’s front door, ready to give chase once the man got out.

Victor caught sight of the man on the tram almost immediately, and moved quickly -- but not quickly enough. The man spotted him as well, and panicked, pushing his way to the door. He was so busy keeping his eye on Victor, that the man didn’t even notice Greg on the scooter until it was nearly too late, and gave chase, running westward.

Greg advanced, but realized that the direction he’d run in had given very little room for Greg to ride, the westward edge of the station being bordered by water on both sides – but then again, it gave the man very little room to run, as well.

( _So we’re both in the same boat_ , Greg thought)

Ten minutes later, he’d laugh like hell at the thought of that thought.

 

****

**6:54pm**

Victor caught up to them just in time to see the man in the blue windbreaker take a flying leap to the top of a passing glass tour boat. The boat was full of sightseers, and they responded with an equal measure of screams and camera snaps.

Greg was standing at the edge of the canal, watching the man land on the boat, breathless, helpless. A few steps away, the pink scooter stood, it’s engine idling.

“Son of a bitch, he’s a madman, ” Victor started.

Greg ignored the Yank, and watched, gobsmacked, as the man in the blue windbreaker worked his feet, scrambling for purchase against the slippery glass. The boat continued its slow move towards the Singel canal…

“Look, no one can say we didn’t try, right?” Victor assured him. “The boat people will call the police, they’ll sort it all out. He won’t get away.”

There was the slightest of pauses, and then Greg turned to Victor. Moving quickly to press the gun into the palm of the American’s hand. “Never say die, Mr. Cowboy.”

He stripped off his shirt.

“Greg,”

He kicked off his shoes.

“Oh, you’re insane…”

Greg leaned in, kissed Victor on the cheek and shouted “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!” at the top of his lungs before taking a running leap into the canal.

 

****

  **7:38pm**

“The Dutch word for police is ‘politie’,” said Victor, tossing Greg another towel. “I always liked that. Where else on earth are police that close to being polite?”

Greg was wet and shivering, but he was _happy_ – seriously, he’d never felt better in his whole life. They’d done it – they’d actually caught the man in the blue windbreaker, chased him, cornered him and captured him. He was now behind bars and Max, while sporting a few bruises and bumps, had his money back.

Of course, as fantastic as Greg felt, he was still sensibly nervous about them standing in the middle of a police station (no matter how “politie” they were).

“Don’t worry about it.” Victor said, handing him a cigarette.

“Don’t worry about it?” Greg snorted. “Let’s look at the situation objectively, shall we? We’re fugitives from justice, we’re currently both high as kites, you stole a scooter from some teenager—

“Borrowed.”

“Whatever, the key word there was _teenager_ , Victor. Then I brandished a loaded firearm on public transportation and terrorized a boatful of Hungarian tourists. Tell me again – why shouldn’t I worry?”

“Look, I fixed it.” Victor said, with confidence. “While they were pulling you out of the water. They don’t care about who we are, they care about what he did, just as it should be. It’s all good. We just need to sign some papers and then we’ll be on our way.”

Greg looked at him in disbelief, but minutes later, an officer came into the room bearing a neatly typed incident report.

“Gentlemen, this report states that you both witnessed the suspect robbing the shwarma shop using an unlicensed firearm. While in the shop, he assaulted the shop owner and the two of you then proceeded to give chase. You,” The officer looked up and pointed at Greg, “followed him onto the #5 tram and then cornered him near Centraal Station, chasing him onto a Glass Boat tour barge and then ultimately into the canal itself,” The officer then turned to Victor, “At which point, you threw down a pair of handcuffs which you happened to have on your person, and instructed your friend to cuff the suspect to the dock while awaiting police response, is that correct?”

Greg stifled a giggle. The very matter-of-fact way the officer had mentioned the handcuffs said volumes about what those officers must see every day on the job.

Victor nodded. “Yes, Officer.”

The officer handed him a pen. “Excellent. If you’ll just sign here, Mr. Callahan?” he said to Victor, and pointed out the place to sign. He did so with great flourish.

 _Mr. Callahan?_ Greg lifted a brow, but said nothing. _Who the hell was Callahan?_

The officer pushed the paper in front of Greg. “And you, Mr. McClane?”

_Harry Callahan. John McClane. Oh, that bold-ass motherfucker…_

Victor coughed, hiding his grin as he watched Greg put two and two together.  Greg cleared his throat. “Right, well. That’s actually, um, _Detective_ McClane, officer.”

The officer smiled pleasantly. “Oh? Well that would explain your extraordinary dedication to capturing the suspect, wouldn’t it?”

Greg shot a look at Victor, and Victor smirked, looking down at the ground. The officer closed the file folder in front of him. “That’s it for the paperwork, boys. We’ll retain the firearm as evidence in the case against the suspect. I advise you to shower as soon as possible. The canals aren’t for swimming.”

“Will do, officer,” said Greg, earnestly.

The three men stood up and shook hands, and the officer walked them to the door.  “So, thanks again, and fellas?”

Greg and Victor both paused, waiting for the shoe to drop. They turned, reluctantly.

“Yes?” Victor asked. Greg shifted nervously beside him.

“One last thing: you, sir, are no Dirty Harry,” he said, pointing to Victor, “And you’re not even the guy from ‘Moonlighting’, much less John McClane. Try pulling jackass shit like this again and you will get hurt. Next time call us. But we do appreciate your help in resolving this crime.”

Victor grinned, while Greg stood, completely stunned. There were no words.

The officer propped the station door open for them, and winked broadly. “Stay out of trouble, gents, and have a lovely rest of your stay in Amsterdam.”

The boys exited the station quickly, and to their credit, they managed to hold back their laughter until they’d very nearly reached the end of the block.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have newfound respect for action sequence writers – this chapter was not easy to write! 
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- [Maps](http://www.gostreetmaps.com/amsterdam.html), [maps](http://www.amsterdam.info/map/), everywhere! I needed a lot of them for this chapter!
> 
> \- [Amsterdam Trams](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trams_in_Amsterdam) (they were [yellow in 1997](https://www.flickr.com/photos/41659357@N07/4029101798/))
> 
> \- [Bright. Pink. Vespa!](http://i198.photobucket.com/albums/aa200/boojana18/Phlog_Pink_Scooter_DSC_0117.jpg)
> 
> \- [Glass Boat Tour boat](http://www.cityhotspotter.com/things-to-do-en/boat-tours-en/boathouse-amsterdam/)!
> 
> \- They really are quite ["politie"](http://www.nltimes.nl/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/Politie-logo-1024x768.jpg)!
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!
> 
> I’m gonna try and get you guys a new chapter before 221BCon. There’s a lot of sexy, though, soI want to make sure that I’ve the time to do it right. 
> 
> April 10, 2015: Chapter 16 delayed for 221B Con reasons. I'll check back in after the con and let you know when you can expect the next chapter. Thanks for your patience! ;-)  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	16. 8:25pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys clean up, and chill out.

 

 

 _ **“Sometimes maybe you need an experience. The experience can be a person or it can be a drug. The experience opens a door that was there all the time but you never saw it. Or maybe it blasts you into outer space.”**_    
― [Melvin Burgess](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/56977.Melvin_Burgess),  _[Smack](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2756729)_

**8:25pm**

His chest slapped up against the glass, fingers splayed against the slick surface, soaking wet and warm now, hot even, sweating in this shower, his cock rubbing up against the transparent wall, Victor pinning him by the wrists.

His mouth sought out Greg’s ear. “Can you imagine what this would look like to someone out there?” Victor asked, indicating the bathroom, outside of the shower. “Your cock and balls pressed into the glass, every vein visible, every space filled between them.”

“Oh, fuck, stop…” Greg groaned, struggling.

Not hearing a safeword, Victor edged his knee between Greg’s legs, moving his hip forward to further restrict Greg’s movement. “Come on, Road Rash, admit it. It’d be a work of art. Obscene, but art all the same. And you’d love it, love thinking about someone on the other side of that glass, a stranger’s hand over your cock, just a half an inch of glass separating you…”

“Christ…” Greg’s legs were buckling, but Victor held him fast, pushing and prodding him into position, arching his back just so, pressing his shoulders forward, sliding his hand between the man’s cheeks possessively. Greg moaned loudly at his touch, and bucked backwards into his hand.

 “Less than 24 hours ago, you were straight,” Victor said, and Greg closed his eyes. “Now look at you. So desperate. Didn’t I fuck you hard enough this morning?”

Greg mumbled something, words drowned out by the dual, high-pressure shower heads above them.

“What was that?” Victor asked, and circled Greg’s hole with his finger, eliciting a whole host of new whines and whelps from the biker. “Speak up, Greg.”

The man shook his head, and received a slap on the ass in return, the sting made harder by the water, the sound echoing in the enclosed space, helping him find his voice. “Fine. Yes. You…fucked me hard enough this morning. ..”

“But?”

 _Goddammit,_ Greg thought, _why is he making me do this?_ “But…I still want more.” He said, giving in, his thighs shaking.

“And why’s that, do you think?” Victor asked, and Greg pressed himself even harder against the glass. It was a pointless exercise, with no satisfying friction to be found against the glass.

The hesitation brought another slap, harder than the first, pulling a surprised yelp from the biker. “Fucking hell, that hurts!”

“Damn right it does,” Victor said, caustically, releasing Greg’s wrists just long enough to readjust and thread his fist tightly in the other man’s hair. “It’ll hurt even more if you don’t answer me when I ask, you little shit.” He punctuated the sentence with a slight bump of the man’s forehead into the wall – not enough to hurt him, but just enough to motivate.

It worked.

“Wh-what’s the question, then?”

Victor loved this, loved it when their bodies and their brains stopped working in harmony, the confusion of a sub in subspace was glorious, and the steam that filled the shower only added to Greg’s confusion. Victor bit into the thin skin at his neck, savoring the man’s pain, feeling him panic and struggle.

“I asked _why_ you wanted more, Greg.” Victor explained. The sound of a flip cap and the squelch of liquid in the palm of his hand, and the Yank once more slipped his slicked fingers up against his hole, still not broaching it. Again, the other man whimpered and bucked backwards, his response already rote, his respiration ragged.

“Because I need it?” he huffed, guessing at the right answer.

Another slap. “Wrong. Try again.”

“Because I-I’m…fuck…because I deserve it?”

The fourth, fifth and sixth slaps hit tender flesh, at the spot just where thigh meets ass, and Greg properly howled. “No. Because of what you are. What are you, Greg? You can tell me that, right? That’s not so difficult, is it?”

Greg paused, turned to look at Victor, his eyes searching, his mouth lush and open. Nervously, the Brit licked his lips. “Um…I’m shameless, I suppose. And, and needy, and selfish sometimes, but,” the words came faster then. “The big thing is that no matter what I do, it’s never, ever enough for me, not ever,  you know, and it’s a serious problem, but it’s not your problem, and I – just…”

A confessional.

It happens. A lot.

Subspace opens doors that usually stay nailed shut, and the relief of being able to open those doors, even if it’s just a crack, often results in a landslide of confidences, spilled secrets and taboo thoughts. Victor’s expression softened, and he loosened his grip on the other man’s hair. “Greg, that’s good, that’s okay, alright? It’s so okay,” he crooned, and turned the man around to face him. “None of that is a problem. You realize that, right? First off, saying that you’re ‘shameless’, well fuck, kid - say it to me, and it’s like waving a red flag at a bull. Just makes me want to work you harder.”

Greg’s smiled a little at that, but kept his eyes averted.

“And as for insatiability – if that _is_ what we’re talking about?” Victor questioned, raising his eyebrows, and Greg nodded, apologetically. The American responded by taking the man’s face with both hands and kissing him, hard and sweet. “That’s not anything to be upset about. It’s something to celebrate, dumbass. In this world, it makes you a fucking unicorn. Fucking magical as shit.”

Greg shook his head, but another smile danced over his mouth.

“I mean, maybe it’s just me, maybe I’m the selfish one,” Victor explained. “But how can having someone around that’s always up for it ever be anything less than a good thing?”

“In my experience, it’s rarely seen as a good thing.” Greg said, a touch bitterly.

“More proof that you’ve been running with the wrong crowd.” Victor leaned into the glass, and traced each of Greg’s eyebrows meditatively with his thumb. “With the right crowd, on the other hand, that kind of admission will get you into only the best kind of trouble…”

In D’s luxury en suite bathroom, three out of the four shower walls were made of transparent glass. The fourth wall, however, was made of opaque glass bricks, which provided just enough leverage to allow Greg to ease up onto Victor’s hips, and enough drag that he could stay in that position just by leaning backwards. It was novel being the smaller and lighter of a pair, after a lifetime spent being taller and heavier than his partners. Now he was the one being lifted instead of the other way around, but before he could spend too much time trying to sort out how he felt about this, Victor had gripped him by the hips, positioned him carefully and slowly, slowly pulled him down onto his cock.

The sensation cancelled out all other thought, and replaced it with noise, noises, plural, coming from his own throat because _fuck_ if this wasn’t the best feeling ever.

Victor relaxed into the position, his legs braced comfortably against the wall. “Put your hands on my shoulders,” he explained, and Greg did, his lower back muscles immediately relaxing as well. “Good?”

“Good, yeah,” Greg said, breathlessly, and flexed his thigh muscles, using his arms to steady him against Victor. “Shit, more than good,” he said, testing the position with a more aggressive roll of his hips…

“Yeah, just like that,” groaned Victor as Greg fell into rhythm, riding him, the movement forcing every muscle in the biker’s legs to engage. “I can hold this for fucking ever, so you take your time, got it? Be selfish for me.”

Greg nodded, and gasped, warm water spilling down his chest as he found just the right angle, remembering the night before when the other man had found that one…right…spot that had made Greg twist and cuss and nearly blackout, it was so good. Victor lazily stroked him, in time with the movement of the biker’s hips, and Greg, well, he just focused on Victor: the way he tossed his hair out of eyes, his locks longer and darker when wet, the hint of sideburns more pronounced, those fucking bloody lips, plush and just…fuck. Greg may not have been sure about much regarding his sexuality on that day, but the one thing he was 100% on was the fact that gay, straight, bi or otherwise, in any other circumstance, Victor would’ve been undeniably out of Greg’s league. If he hadn’t been nicked, or if Victor hadn’t, or if there had been a third person nicked and placed in a cell between them, none of this would’ve ever happened. It made Greg weirdly heartsick, the thought, but he wasn’t sure if he was sick at the possibility of not having…whatever this was…with Victor, or if he was sick at the idea of not knowing what he was missing.

As for Victor, he was in the process of learning Greg, already memorizing the noises that led up to his climax, that certain twist of his lip that happened just before, the closed eyes, the clench of his fingers paired with the stretch of his toes. He’d never taken the time to notice things like this until Sherlock pointed them out. His help was invaluable, and it had made Victor a better Dom, learning to read all those little details – even though it was precisely those details that often got in Sherlock’s way. One deduction too many could make a good time turn bad for the boy genius, so while Sherlock encouraged Victor to pay closer attention to the details, Victor encouraged Sherlock to ignore some of them. He wondered what Sherlock would think of Greg, if anything. Probably nothing. Sherlock would consider it “slumming”, he was certain (to which Victor would vehemently protest), and Sherlock would inevitably accuse Victor of leading Greg on.

Because he was, wasn’t he?

Was he?

After all, he genuinely _liked_ Greg, and while the situation certainly implied a longer-term association than he usually engaged in, he’d made no promises. Up against the bricks in front of him, Greg was nearly there, so close, and Victor slammed him back against the wall, pushing the intrusive thoughts away and pulling Greg harder down on his cock, fuck, perfect, faster, kissing his chest, licking and biting down hard, leaving marks, oh god, he fucking loved that, claiming Greg in the crudest way possible.

“Vic…” Greg panted, “Please,” he asked, and all it took was the nod of Victor’s head for Greg to let go, spattering Victor’s torso and crying out, his voice hoarse and cracking.

 

****

**9:06pm**

“So where are we going?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. What should I wear?”

“Won’t matter,” Victor said, with a smirk. “You won’t be wearing it long.”

Greg lifted an eyebrow and grabbed a random Radiohead t-shirt from his bag…

****

 

**9:22pm**

“Come on, admit it: it would have been helpful to have had the bike earlier!” Greg looked longingly at the Venom, still parked out front of the flat.

But Victor was firm: “No bike, not where we’re going, not if you want to keep it.”

“Hey, thieves fear us now,” Greg bragged, goodnaturedly nudging the other man with his shoulder. “Or should, anyway. We’re heroes.”

“No, we’re idiots: you’re the idiot who jumped in the water, and I’m the idiot on the pink Vespa,” Victor grinned, and nudged him back. The nudge turned into a push, which turned into a shove and the whole thing developed into a minor skirmish by the time they reached the end of Oude Leliestraaat, just off the Singel Canal. Greg only called a timeout when a nearby shop caught his eye.

“I’ve heard of that place.” Greg said, and nodded his head in the shop’s direction. “What’s up with the Star Trek lettering?” The sign out front read “Grey Area” in a futuristic font.

Victor shrugged, with a knowing smile. “You say that like nerds ever need an excuse.”

It was a coffeeshop -- which can be a complicated descriptor in Amsterdam because there are coffeeshops where you buy coffee and coffeeshops where you buy marijuana and some where you can even buy both at once. This happened to be one of the latter variety. Greg lingered at the storefront, peering through the window. It was tiny, only 17 seats, and in spite of its spacey intentions, its décor owed more to Woodstock than it did to the Starship Enterprise. Greg turned his head. “Wanna go in? I mean, do we have time?”

“We’ve got little else but time,” Victor said, and playfully scrubbed his hand over Greg’s head. “But I thought you weren’t into this?”

“When in Rome?” Greg said, with a laugh. “Besides, I’m curious. And a little relaxation before whatever it is that you might have in store for the rest of the night might not be a bad idea.”

“Not a bad idea at all,” Victor smiled, and held the door open for him. Inside, only two or three tables were occupied, but with a shop as small as this, two or three tables can make the place look packed. Behind the counter sat a man, 30ish, wearing a scruffy beard and Elvis Costello glasses. When Victor approached, the man stood, surprised, and held out his hand. “Holy shit, Victor,” the man said, another American. “Where the hell have you been hiding, man?”

 “London, mostly,” he said, “not sure how long we’ll be in town, though. Greg, this is John, John, this is Greg. It’s his first time in A’dam and yours, interestingly enough, was the first coffeeshop he’s shown an interest in.”

John shook Greg’s hand. “Smart man. Need a menu?”

“A menu?” Greg asked, a little taken aback. “Like it’s a bloody Wimpy Burger?”

“Good god, let’s hope it’s better than Wimpy Burger,” he said, with a smile. John pressed a laminated menu on the counter, spun it in Greg’s direction and leaned in. “Okay, we’ve got 18 strains of cannabis, all locally grown and sourced, providing a variety of highs, as noted. If hashish is your thing, we’ve got that, too, six different types of hash, all organic.”

Greg looked at Victor. “This is really strange, isn’t it? ‘Shopping’ for drugs?”

John laughed. “Better than the way you buy it back home. Here you can look, touch, even smell it before you buy. Price is reasonable, and we’ll even loan you glassware, if you need it.” He said, and pointed to the assortment of vaporizers, bongs and pipes behind the counter. “Oh, unless you’d prefer a blunt, Vic? If I remember right, you have a cigar, now and again?”

Victor shook his head. “Yeah, not this time. Let’s keep it simple. I’ve got papers.”

“Such a boy scout,” John teased, “Always prepared. So, what will you have?”

Greg ran his hand over the menu. “I guess, I don’t know, this one? Won an award or summat?”

John nodded. “Yellow Cab, good choice. Vic?”

“Gray Haze. Gram of each.” Victor directed. “We’re not looking to make a night of it.”

“You have plans,” John said, eyes sharpening.

“When _don’t_ I have plans?” Victor winked, and dropped the money on the counter. “Couple of waters, too.”

John whisked the money into the register and deftly weighed one gram each of Yellow Cab and Gray Haze into small zip bags. “Enjoy, fellas.”

The boys made their way to a small table by the window, where Victor made quick work of rolling two fat joints from each zip bag. He handed Greg his, and held the lighter for him, before lighting his own.

“You good?” Victor asked, giving a small cough after his first inhale.

“Surprisingly good,” Greg nodded, considering the cigarette in his hands. “Takes some of the sexy out of it, though doesn’t it? Buying it all upfront and legal.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Victor said, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “My business thrives on the sexy. If they ever made X or acid legal? Shit, I’ll be out of business, or at least have to seriously reconsider my marketing plan.”

“You have a marketing plan?” Greg laughed.

“I have a business, of course I have a marketing plan.” Victor said, slightly offended. “Bands, bars, and colleges, the holy trinity of drug sales. Networking is critical, as is reputation. Gotta keep my quality up, and keep up with demand, of course.”

“But it’s illegal, Vic!”

“Doesn’t make it any less a business,” the American said, lifting a shoulder. “Doesn’t make it any less a career.”

The man had a point, but Greg couldn’t imagine running a business and running from the law at the same time. “Must be tough - how often do you get nicked?”

Victor shifted in his chair. “More often than I like. Less now, though, I’ve gotten smarter as it’s gone on.” He leaned back, the THC loosening him by a few detectable degrees. “What about you?”

“Yesterday, I mean…last night…”, Greg let out a small, self-conscious giggle. “Yeah, yesterday-last-night was the first time I got nicked.”

“No, man,” Victor said, tapping the ash into an ashtray. “I meant career.”

Greg furrowed his brow. “You already know that. I work in the garage.”

“Yeah, but,” Victor said, voice strained from holding in the smoke. “That’s not what you _want_ to do.”

Greg laughed. “No?”

“No!” Victor said, dismissively. “That’s not at all what you want to do.”

Greg shook his head. “No, no, no, no, I _like_ bikes, I like fixing things.”

Victor leaned in. “I’m not saying you don’t like bikes or fixing things. I’m just saying it’s not what you really want to do.”

“Oi, and you know what I want to do?” Greg said, dubiously. “You who have known me all of…” he counted on his fingers, “…18, 19, 20…20-something hours?”

Victor nodded, confidently. “Yep.”

“This is starting to feel like a conversation with my Dad.” Greg snapped and Victor made a face. The biker picked up his glass and drank down most of his water in one gulp, squinting in the direction of the counter. “Wish they sold beer.”

Victor crossed his arms in front of him, looking at the biker expectantly. This was not about beer. Victor was intent on pushing the conversation in this direction, and at this point, honestly, Greg didn’t feel like resisting. “Fine, Victor, have it your way. What do you think it is that I really want to do?”

Victor smiled, and removed the pouch of Drum tobacco from his pocket, throwing it onto the table beside the rolling papers. He rolled tobacco cigarettes as they talked. “It’s not like you don’t already know, you just won’t admit it to yourself.”

“No, mate, I honestly don’t know what the fuck you’re going on about.” Greg said, getting frustrated.

“It’s so obvious, Greg,” Victor said, knowingly. “You should be a policeman.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. “I am NOT a cop!”

“You could be. Ditch the crappy haircut and trade those leathers in for a badge, and hell yes, I can see it.” Victor handed him a cigarette, which Greg pocketed for later.

“You’re insane.”

“No, no I’m not,” Victor said, defending his theory. “You have a healthy sense of right and wrong, you err on the side of normal and legal in your regular life –“

“—Except when I’m illegally racing motorbikes and fleeing the country as a fugitive!”

“Our current situation notwithstanding – it’s a rather special circumstance, after all.” Victor said, glibly. “But the racing just supports my theory. You, my friend, are starved for excitement. You love action movies and video games, and the only reason you even ran with me or took my drugs was in rebellion against…I dunno, Daddy, I’m guessing?

Greg flared, his response immediately angry. “You. Back. The Fuck. Off!”

“See?” Victor said, with a told-you-so look. “You’re already channeling your inner McClane.”

“I am not a cop.” Greg repeated, stubbornly.

“Whatever you say, Officer.” Victor snarked, and Greg had an overwhelming desire to punch him right in his fucking face. How dare he compare him to his father?

Ten seconds later, realization dawned.

“Fucking hell, you _know_ my father, don’t you?”

Victor shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I do get busted every now and again…”

“Oh my god, you _do_ know him!” Greg groaned. “Is that why you started this with me? Some sort of revenge something?”

“Oh, fuck, I don’t know your Dad, Greg!” Victor insisted. “How could I? I don’t even know your last name? And for the record, I don’t make a habit of memorizing the names of the officers who arrest me, alright?”

The other patrons of the shop turned, the volume of their conversation having escalated, a little loud for such a small space.

“Sorry,” he said to the crowd, and turned back to Greg, in a softer tone. “I certainly don’t start things with people to get revenge. That’s fucked up. ‘Daddy’ was a guess, Greg, just because that cop was decent to you when he walked you down to the cells. That and the fact that you knew all that shit about the security cameras, you had to be related to that precinct somehow. ”

Greg considered this, ash toppling off the end of his smoke. “Yeah, okay, I guess that…makes sense, somehow.”

“Whoever he is, though, he must be an asshole, to leave you in that cell. No offense.” Victor stubbed out his first joint, and slipped the roach, along with the untouched second joint, into the tobacco pouch. “Dad like that, no wonder you’re such a tough little cuss.”

Greg let a small, rueful smile through. “You think I’m tough?”

 “Wouldn’t say you should be a cop if you weren’t, would I?” Victor said, and pocketed the tobacco pouch. “Look, you be whatever you want to be, but I saw your face tonight. When that motherfucker pushed Max down, when he ran off, you were angry, and you didn’t hesitate. You chased him halfway around the city centre and back again and you fucking _jumped in the water_ to stop him from getting away. You’re a good man who’s not afraid to get into the fray—“

“—I just did what anyone else wou—“

“No, no, that’s not true.” Victor argued. “You didn’t see anyone else in that shop jump up to chase him, did you? Fuck, I only did because you were, and I _know_ Max.”

“All that proves is that I’m stupid enough to get in the middle of someone else’s fight that’s all.”

“Yeah, ask fucking Max if it was stupid.” Victor said sarcastically, and lit a tobacco cigarette. “But we haven’t even gotten to the real reason you should be a cop.”

“No?”

“No.”

Greg looked at him, dubiously. “So what’s the real reason?”

Victor leaned in, suddenly serious. “Because you fucking _loved it_ tonight. The chase, the capture, the arrest. I may not know you very well, Greg, but I know arousal when I see it, kid, and in the last 20-something hours, you were never more turned on than when you dove off that pier -- and that’s saying a lot. Think about it.” He said, firmly, and stood up. “That’s enough career talk for now. Finish your water. Time to go.”

Greg’s brain buzzed, not so much from the drugs, but from the words that Victor had said. He finished his glass and looked up at the man, slightly shellshocked. “Sure thing. Where to next?”

“Well,” The American began, “Technically – officially -- we’re tourists in this fine city, and since this is your very first visit, there’s really only one place we can go.”

“This isn’t going to involve windmills or wooden shoes, is it?” Greg asked, skeptically.

“Quite the contrary,” Victor said, with a wicked grin. “I think it’s time for a trip to the Red Light District, don’t you?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys:
> 
> The con was a blast, and this week was busy, but there was still time for Victor and Greg! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
> \- [Greg’s Radiohead tour t-shirt](http://www.ebay.com/itm/1997-Vintage-Radiohead-Band-Tour-Purple-T-shirt-/291268055191). Here’s hoping he kept it!
> 
> \- [Grey Area](http://www.greyarea.nl/the-shop/about-the-grey-area-coffeeshop/) is a real place. [Check this out for a panoramic view of the tiny store](http://www.greyarea.nl/panorama/panorama.html) – and [check this out to see the real John](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vJDQILafRYo) (DISCLAIMER: I don’t know John, and he probably wouldn’t be friends with someone like Victor in real life). For what it's worth, I've also played a little with Grey Area's hours of operations in order to give the boys a little time to get their smoke on...aaaand I'm not entirely sure if they actually do sell actual coffee there (any Nederlanders in the house?).
> 
> \- [Wimpy Burger](http://www.wimpy.uk.com/) is a British fast food place that is (sorry, England) fucking gross (or, to be fair, was most definitely gross in 1988) 
> 
>  
> 
> First off, big welcome to new readers – some new folks have stumbled in, thanks to 221B, so welcome!
> 
> For those of you who have been reading all along, you’ll notice that the Chapter numbers have increased with this update. Long story short, what had been expected to be dealt with, plotwise, in a single chapter, ended up requiring quite a few more, so I made some adjustments to the outline. 
> 
> But more is better, yes? ;-p
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading and commenting, and I’ll see you in two weeks!  
>  <3  
>  vex.


	17. 10:28pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Greg play tourist in the Red Light District.
> 
> Please note: The very end of this chapter has been revised, as of 5/4/15. I hadn't realized how misleading it was until one kind commenter posted something about it this morning. Not wanting to mislead other readers, I made a small revision that removes the reference in question. Thank you for your patience!

 

 

_“ **Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth, it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin** **.”**_

-John Green

**10:28pm**

Greg had expected it would take a long time to reach De Wallen, the largest of the three Red Light Districts in Amsterdam – but remarkably, it was a short distance away, with the far edges of it beginning just three blocks east of Dam Square.

“By the way, count your blessings,” Victor teased, as they crossed to the other side of the street. His hand fell to the small of Greg’s back, passively directing him to stay on the Damstraat.

“Oh yeah?” Greg replied, sliding his eyes to the American. “Why should I?”

The wind had picked up and the temperature had fallen since sunset. Victor zipped the leather jacket part-way up, cigarette clamped between his teeth. “The Black Tulip is closed for a private party tonight.”

“What the hell’s The Black Tulip?" 

“Oh,” Victor smiled sweetly, and pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “A dungeon.”

The mere mention of the word prompted Greg’s stomach to flip, but whether it was out of fear or anticipation, he didn’t know. “I’m sorry, um…what?"

“You heard what I said,” smirked Victor. 

“Shut up.” Greg’s face burned, embarrassed. He knew places like that existed in real life – he’d just never imagined that he’d ever be in a situation where actually going to one would be an option. After all, Emma had been the girl that had come the closest to giving him this…whatever, fucked up thing he needed, but their exchanges had always been private, subtle, just a hint of a suggestion of a flirtation. And that was fine, really, but as much as he’d enjoyed their charged exchanges, underneath, an unspoken part of him was dying for _exposure_.

Victor, on the other hand, had understood almost immediately. On the train, on the side of the road, in the shower earlier that night, that whispered tease in his ear. He had to know that a visit to a place like that would wreck him, tear him into a million, brilliant pieces. His nonchalant reference to the Dungeon was a carefully-planned suggestion, one that would worm its way through Greg’s brain for the rest of the night and well into tomorrow.

“Th-that’s too bad,” Greg said, self-consciously.  “Guess we’ll just have to go another time.”

“You betcha,” Victor said, and threw a friendly arm around him. “Whenever you like. 

They continued down the road, the pair of them, passing a few more coffeehouses and a bar or two. Music spilled out from one, a popular spot, crowded with students gathered at outside tables, pint glasses in their hands. At the sight of a particularly rowdy table of guys in their 20s, Greg froze, and slowly pulled away from the Yank. It was just a few critical inches, a reflex, a kneejerk response, s _trictly self-preservation_ , Greg told himself because he knew exactly what those guys were about – and hell, he could’ve _been_ one of those guys 48 hours ago, at least on the outside – and guys like that, after a few beers, well, better safe than sorry. So, he pulled away, and felt like a complete shit the minute he did. Thankfully, Victor didn’t seem to pay it any mind, but even so, Greg began to stammer,  awkwardly trying to fill the physical space between them with words. “So are we, uh, there yet?”

“Almost,” Victor said, and prompted him to turn left at Oudezjids Achterburgwal. As they rounded the corner, the long road stretched out in front of them, and it was filled with shops and windows, people and activity everywhere.

“See? Now we are,” Victor hummed approvingly. “Welcome to De Wallen!” 

Greg took in the scene around him. To say the Red Light District was not what he’d expected wasn’t entirely fair: after all, Greg wasn’t an innocent. He’d spent some time in the seedier sections of Soho, had been to porn shops and strip clubs with the boys, and he’d basically been expecting _that_ , but on a larger scale: neon lights, dark corners, barkers outside strip clubs handing out flyers.  To some extent, De Wallen met that expectation -- but in other ways, it was a whole different world. It was cleaner than expected, and while the women in the windows were certainly a sight, the people on the ground were likely the most shocking part about the Red Light District. They were…ordinary, regular people -- not just creepers in raincoats. Here, there were men of all ages, but women as well, couples on dates, girls in groups, on their own, even – and so many of the people were tourists, wearing comfortable shoes, gripping their Let’s Go! guides and posing for photos with one another. It all had a sort of shopping mall effect, like Times Square, the Disneyfication of a once- sordid spot. Chilling, but comforting at the same time. 

Greg turned to Victor. “This is…”

“…something else, right?” Victor asked, finishing his sentence. “Yeah, I know. But this place never was that image you had in your head. You see those houses over there?” He pointed at the buildings in and around the nightclubs and red-and-blue lit windows. Greg nodded, and Victor continued. ”Those are people’s homes. This is a historic district, and this neighborhood is residential, established, well-respected. It’s not some abandoned wasteland -- people live here, raise kids here, go to school, go to work. And all of this has grown up _with_ them, not around them. It’s a balancing act.”

“That’s so strange.”

“I like it, though.” Victor said, pitching the remains of his cigarette butt into the canal. “The base living among the reputable." 

“So which are we, then?” Greg asked, with a snarky smile.

“Us?” Victor grinned. “Tonight? Neither. Tonight, we’re tourists.”

 

****

 

**10:53pm**

“Hey, you said we we’re tourists!”

“That doesn’t mean we go in for every tourist trap, Greg.”

“I’m not saying we go in for every one, just this one.”

 

Blame it on the giant pink neon elephant that marked the side of the club.

Blame it on the penis-themed water fountain that decorated the pavement out front.

But most of all, blame it on Greg, because visiting Casa Rosso was entirely his idea…

 

 “ _Live_. _Sex_. _Show_. Come on, Victor!” Greg said, “Don’t see that back in London, do you?”

 “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Victor asked, shaking his head.

“Nope.” Greg answered, looking smug.

“Christ, fine, fuck, ” Victor said, giving in. It would be his first mistake. ”Just play it cool, alright? No need to draw any…unnecessary attention.”

 

If Greg had been paying any attention at all, that line should have given him pause – but it didn’t, because he wasn’t, and soon they were inside the doors and being shown their seats, their pockets much lighter after paying the hefty admission fee.

 _Hell, at least the tickets come with two free drinks_ , thought Victor, and promptly ordered a double Jack – which would prove to be his second mistake.

 

****

**11:16pm**

The show is continuous at the Casa Rosso, with eight acts rotating every hour-and-a-half – four live sex acts featuring four different couples, and strippers performing in-between. The theatre itself is small, with about fifteen rows of cinema-style seating leading down to a narrow stage. At the center of the stage is a small, circular, rotating dais. The décor is slightly seedy, its crushed red velour curtains and crimson upholstery falling right in step with red light district expectations.

Victor and Greg were seated at the beginning of one of the intervening strip teases, in which a busty blonde demonstrated a classic bump-and-grind. The theatre was moderately full, it still being a little early for the red light district. Their drinks arrived, along with a pair of complimentary souvenir penis lollipops that Greg found fucking hysterical. Victor popped his into his mouth without hesitation, and shot a wink and a smile to the man beside him.

“So, you’ve been here before,” started Greg. “How does it work?”

“It’s been a few years,” the other man explained, “But from what I remember, it gets to the sex pretty quickly. They only have 15 minutes before the next act starts.”

Greg thrummed his fingers on the armrest, and eyed a couple sitting three seats down from them, the man’s arm draped around the girl’s pale shoulders. Greg shook his head.  “Crazy, coming here with a date. Can’t imagine.”

Victor smiled, sipping at his drink. “Technically, you are here with a date, Greg. So you don’t have to imagine.”

“That’s true,” Greg agreed, “But you’re different.”

“Because I’m a man?”

“Because you’re a bloody pervert.”

“Takes one to know one,” Victor purred into his ear, and then bit it. Greg shuddered and exhale and crossed his legs in response. Victor’s hands trailed down to the Brit’s lap…

On stage, the blonde exited, and the lights changed. The music transitioned to music that was, at once, both familiar and horrible. Greg and Victor both groaned as the first notes of Poison’s “ _Every Rose Has Its Thorn_ ” began to play.  A long-haired, well-built man walked out, holding hands with a delicate, dark-haired girl. He helped her up onto the dais and they deftly removed each other’s clothing in time with the music, using clearly choreographed movements.

“What a job.” Greg marveled, as the man on stage lay down on the dais beside her and began slowly snapping his hips.

Victor tightened his hand along Greg’s thigh. “A job you’d be uniquely qualified for, you insatiable thing.”

“Thought I was supposed to be a cop,” snarked the biker. “You’re bound and determined to put me to work tonight.”

“One way or another, you will,” Victor promised, under his breath, and it made Greg squirm.

“I’d choose better music, at any rate,” the biker said, with a grin.

The music would change during the course of the fifteen-minute performance, but the soundtrack never progressed beyond 1991, with one bad hair-band ballad after another. Victor and Greg would later decide that this act was supposed to be the “romantic” act of the line-up, what with the “tender” music, meaningful blue lighting and a lack of silly costuming.  The performance itself consisted of two oral acts (ladies first), followed by a moderately graceful, vaginal missionary-to-girl-on-top arc that ended with a decidedly “interruptus” feel.

“What? No orgasm?” Greg applauded as the performers exited.

Victor shook his head. “They never do.”

“Are you serious? What? It’s against the law?”

“I suspect it has more to do with keeping the show going,” Victor said, lighting a cigarette. “No time to mop up in-between.”

“Keep talking like that, you’ll take away all the mystery,” Greg joked.

“The only mystery here is how much they’re watering down the drinks,” Victor drawled.

“Hush,” scolded Greg. “The next act’s starting!”

****

 

****Sunday, 19 October 1997** **

**12:01am**

After the hair-band couple came a brunette stripper performing a classic burlesque fan dance and then a girl-on-girl scene that would have been interesting if the girls hadn’t so clearly been formulating their grocery lists during the act. A male stripper followed, the first act to include audience participation. He pulled the bride-to-be from a twittering hen party up on stage with him and gifted her with a rather scorching lap dance.

Both boys were well into their cups by this time, and Victor’s hand had long since found Greg’s cock through his jeans, stroking lazily, but not consistently enough to keep the man’s erection going – the phrase _no time to mop up_  kept running through Victor’s mind. Greg was having a fantastic time, cheering for each departing act, animatedly clapping and giving loud, one-handed taxi whistles – a response that was so genuinely enthusiastic, Victor forgot to remind him to play it cool.

The next act was a costume act – a kinky mermaid story with a shipwrecked sailor and a girl done up with a tail and everything. Of course, the sailor made short work of getting rid of her mermaid tail, and it wasn’t long before they, too, were turning on the dais, this time on a rock-like set piece that would forever tarnish that Hans Christian Andersen story in the audiences’ collective memories.

The mermaid girl was cute, blonde and quite flexible, making Victor think of…something that his alcohol-clouded brain couldn’t quite remember. By this time, Greg had his hands in Victor’s lap as well, thrilling at the thought of touching him in public, even if was within in the relative safety of the darkened theatre. Another round of drinks were ordered – another beer for Greg, another double Jack for Victor – and the mermaid and her sailor swam off, right on schedule.

The next stripper was female, a redhead, husky-voiced and a bit of a showperson, clearly comfortable on-stage and in command of the crowd. Greg sat a bit forward in his seat when she started talking, and when she asked for a volunteer from the audience, his hand shot up and he was up and out of his seat before Victor could fully raise an objection.

“Greg, er…wait, you…” his voice trailed off as Greg took the steps to the stage two at a time, and he resignedly joined in the applause as Greg stood on the dais.

She was known as the “Cigar Girl”, and Victor had seen her demonstrate her unique skills when he’d last visited Casa Rosso, two years before. He knew exactly what Greg was in for, and he couldn’t help but grin to himself as she launched into the patter.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Greg.”

“Greg, look at you, aren’t you adorable!” The audience applauded, and she linked her arm in his, bringing them both a few steps downstage. Behind them, a chair was placed upstage on the dais.

She pulled Greg close to her, and stage whispered “Now, tell me, Greg, do you have any bad habits?”

“Um,” Greg beamed, and looked out into the audience at Victor. “Yeah, I definitely do.”

“Would you consider yourself…a drinker, Greg?” she asked, and Greg nodded his head affirmatively. “That’s a yes – anyone else out there a drinker?”

The crowd cheered. Victor raised his glass in support.

“So we’re a room full of drinkers, I like that!” she smiled, knowingly. “Now, considering this is Amsterdam, is there any other habit you want to come clean about, Greg?”

Before Greg could answer, a table full of drunk backpackers up in the balcony shouted “WEEEEEEEED!”

The girl onstage handled their improv with aplomb. “Excellent – we’ve got a table of smokers up in the cheap seats! Do you consider yourself…a smoker, Greg?” She asked, giving a little punch to the word smoker.

“Y-yes,” Greg said.

“Well, that’s handy,” She said, and pulled a rather long cigar from the front of her corset. She brandished it in front of her volunteer. “You wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you?”

The audience clapped as Greg scrabbled in his pocket for his lighter, holding it up for the crowd to see.

“Very good, Greg.” She said, and put the cigar in her mouth, leaning in as if accepting a light – but just as he flicked it, she pulled away. “Wait, what am I thinking? That’s not how you smoke a cigar! Say it with me, audience: _That’s not how you smoke a cigar!”_ .

And the audience did, in fact, say it with her, Victor included.

That’s when she backed up, ripped off her bustier, and settled into the upstage chair. She threw a leg over the arm of the chair, much to the delight of the audience, who were now treated to an unhindered view of her pussy. She crooked her finger at the biker. “C’mere, Greg, and let me show you how I smoke a cigar!”

Dutifully, he followed her upstage, looking back at the audience with a sheepish grin. When he reached her side, she looked up at him and crooked her finger again, as if to whisper in his ear. He bent down, only to have her place her hand on his shoulder and press him, slowly, down to the floor. “On your knees, Greg.”

From the audience, Victor watched, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile.

Greg turned three shades of red, but he did as he was told. She draped her other leg over the other arm of the chair, and suddenly, he was inches away from her bare, hairless cunt, on his knees, in front of a theatre full of people.  His heart pounded, his cock twitched and he thanked fucking god that in this position, any erection that might happen would at least be partially hidden by the edge of his jacket. Then again…Greg huffed out a shuddering breath…there was a certain appeal, a certain charge building in his belly, at the thought of her, perhaps, taking out his cock and stroking it in front of all these people and maybe even slapping it…

 _Fuck, that’s not the show, Greg_ , he reminded himself. _She’s the show._

She was talking to the crowd, and then with no further ado, she slid that long cigar deep inside her pussy. As a competent showperson, she made appropriate gasps and squeals, her left hand driving the cigar, her right hand gripping Greg’s hair tightly.

“Oh Greg – Greg: will you… _light my fire_?”

The audience, now conditioned, repeated after her, ready to be amazed, hooting and hollering.  Greg leaned in to her, quietly confirming her request. “Just…hold the flame up to the end?”

She winked at him. “You betcha, sweetheart. Just flick that Bic and hold it there until Mama says stop.”

He bit his lips, nodded, and pressed the button, holding the flame dangerously close to her privates, just as she’d asked. Everyone held their breath, on the edge of their seats, until…until…until…

SMOKE! A cloud of smoke rose up, veiling the cigar’s now burning cherry at the center of her pussy, and the crowd went fucking wild!

She jerked her head at the boy at her feet. “That’s enough, sweetheart, now move back a little and let Mama do her magic.”

Greg shuffled on his knees backwards, and watched her muscles keep the fire going stoked  The first smoke ring sent out another cheer from the crowd, and when she blew one smoke ring directly thorough another, the audience whistled and clapped louder than they had for any performer so far!

It was at precisely this triumphant moment, however, when out in the audience, Victor felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. He turned, expecting the waitress with fresh round of drinks, but instead he found a bouncer’s fist, slamming hard into his face. He fell into the row of seats in front of him, his eyes blinking open, and even with slightly blurred vision from the punch, he knew exactly who the hulking figure was in front of him.

“Goddammit, Henrik, it’s been two years! I never even _fucked_ her!”

But Henrik wasn’t listening. Perhaps it’s more than a little insulting to the mermaid that Victor remembered her bullying boyfriend better than he remembered her, but she wasn’t the one punching him in the face, after all.

“Liar!” The man advanced, and Victor scrambled to his feet, hands held out in front of him.

“How are you even still working here?” He asked, attempting humor. “What? Do they offer a really good pension plan? Dental?”

The thug didn’t laugh, instead pulling his fist back to deliver another blow.  Patrons scattered, getting the fuck out of their chairs and running directly into the cocktail waitress, who had just arrived to deliver their drinks. In the rush, Victor jumped to his feet and grabbed the tumbler of Jack off her tray, before it flew up into the air. He downed it, triumphantly, just as Greg’s pint of beer fell, spilling all over the bouncer’s chest.

He shouted, and lunged for Victor. “I KNEW the double Jacks were for you, you fuck!” Victor, now trapped between Henrik and the wall, hopped up onto the backs of the third row chairs and not-so-gracefully picked his way stage right. The remaining occupants of the third row chairs moved out of the way as he approached, forming a throng that Henrik had to push past to get to the American – but by the time the bouncer reached the end of the row, Victor had already found his way to the stage.

Cigar Girl had long since stopped the show, utterly amused by the spectacle, pleased for anything to break up the monotony on a show night.

“He’s mad!” she said.

“Lady, you don’t know the half of it,” quipped Greg, just as Victor took his hand.

“Sorry to interrupt the show,” Victor said to her, more than a little out of breath. “Backstage exit somewhere?”

Without a word, she pointed to the wings, and they were off.  As they disappeared into the darkness, Greg shouted behind them “Nice to meet you! You’re very talented!”

The Cigar Girl smiled, shook her head, watched the bouncer follow them out the door.

“Well, folks” she said, with a theatrical sigh to the audience. “Just goes to show that where there’s smoke, there’s fire – and all three of those boys were _smoking_ hot, don’t you think?”

 

****

**12:26am**

Henrik gave up the chase after three blocks, being much more of a fighter than a runner, and the boys collapsed in an alleyway soon after, panting and laughing, the chase and the cool air burning off some of the alcohol in their systems. Adrenaline once again coursed in their veins, and they both felt fucking alive.

“What’d you do to him?” Greg gasped, huffing for breath.

“Nothing. And I didn’t do anything to his girlfriend, either.” Victor pulled Greg to him roughly. “Of course, what she did to me, I’ll never tell.”

“The Cigar girl-mama-person was right. ” said Greg, drunkenly. “You’re mad.” Hazily, he looked at Victor, and registered the rather large and bleeding cut on his cheek. “You need…to see a doctor…or something.”

Victor touched the cut, looked at the blood on his fingers and then squinted, looking up at the street sign. “Of course!" he said, smiling broadly. "I know who can help, Road Rash! Ha! Come with me…”

“Where are we going?”

Victor smiled, and nipped at Greg’s lip. “Where we should’ve gone from the very start.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- [De Wallen](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_Wallen) (Dutch pronunciation: [də ˈʋɑlə(n)]) or De Walletjes (Dutch pronunciation: [də ˈʋɑləcəs]) is the largest and best known red-light district in Amsterdam
> 
> -[The Black Tulip](http://www.leatherhistory.eu/?p=3299) was a real place, but in reality, it wasn’t a public dungeon space, it was a kinked-up, primarily gay hotel.
> 
> -[“The décor is slightly seedy, its crushed red velour curtains and crimson upholstery falling right in step with red light district expectations.”](https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8320/7995796674_5dc1485d9f_b.jpg)
> 
> -[Penis Lollipops](http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/05/ea/d2/fb/casa-rosso.jpg) are a real thing…
> 
> -…as is [The Cigar Girl](http://www.yelp.com/biz/casa-rosso-amsterdam-2). 
> 
> \- Finally, for your listening pleasure, the [one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2r2nDhTzO4), [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrSdXtFJG20), [three](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrIiLvg58SY) horrible songs the "romantic" couple performed to...
> 
>  
> 
> Earlier than expected today! Hope you enjoyed this little foray into Amsterdam's Red Light District, more to come in two weeks!
> 
> Thanks, as always, for your kudos and comments, they're fantastic! 
> 
>  <3  
>  vex.


	18. 12:38am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor introduces Greg to some old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you, readers! 
> 
> Dutch is spoken in this chapter, and thanks to the fabulous [Indybaggins](http://indybaggins.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, it's actually correct! Indy was superamazingawesome and responded to my mid-week call for help with my cobbled-together Dutch in this chapter (as well as help with previous chapters). She responded like a hero and turned it around QUICK, even my last-minute stuff from last night! PLUS she helped me confirm/sort out Dutch character names! So, swing by her page and give her lots of love! <3
> 
> And if you're curious about what was really said during those Dutch conversations, at the end of the fic, you'll find translations of the Dutch lines. Thanks for tuning in!

 

“The prostitute is not, as feminists claim, the victim of men, but rather their conqueror, an outlaw, who controls the sexual channels between nature and culture.”

CAMILLE PAGLIA,  _Vamps and Tramps_

 

**12:38am**

By the time they reached the right street, Greg was entirely turned around. “Tell the truth, mate, you have no fucking idea where we are.”

Victor, still bleeding, still drunk, spun around, emphatically. “I could find this place with my eyes closed. It’s just a left and a left and another right to the street and then…wait, no—“ He spun around again, hazily narrowing his eyes, and then triumphantly pointed up at a specific bank of red-lit windows. “There!”

Greg, not bleeding, but also still drunk, let that gesture process. “You’re pointing at a red window."

Victor nodded. “Yes, it’s the Red Light District, there are a lot of red windows.” 

“Wait.” Greg said, alarm rising in his voice. “We’re visiting a prostitute?

“We’re visiting my _friend_ who happens to be a prostitute, yes. Problem?” Victor asked, adding, “It is legal here, you know."

“I know, but,” Greg leaned into the other man. “I dunno, it’ll feel awkward, won’t it? To go in there?”

Victor made a face. “You were just on stage in front of a hundred people, helping a woman smoke a cigar _with her vagina_. I don’t think visiting a prostitute will be the most awkward thing you’ve done tonight, Greg. Come on, ” He said, tagging him with his shoulder before crossing the street, “Don’t worry, though- she won’t bite unless we pay her!”

“Wait.” Greg repeated, and followed after him. “She?”

 

****

 

**12:41am**

They climbed the steps outside the narrow canal house, which featured two great windows that faced out onto Trompettersteeg: the main floor window, lit with red, red curtains currently open, and an upstairs window, lit with blue, blue curtains currently closed.

“Hoi Betje!” Victor rapped on the main floor window. “Ben je thuis?”

“I know what the red lights mean,” Greg said, squinting up at the second floor. “What do the blue lights mean?”

“Geduld, lieverd, gedraag je!” A shout came from through the glass.

Victor smiled as the figure approached. “Hang on,” he said to Greg, and peered into the window. “Ben je bezig? Het is Victor! Lang niet gezien…”

As Betje came closer to the glass, Greg’s eyes grew wider. She was a woman who seemed meticulously designed to appeal to a certain type of man, a type of man very much like Greg. With impossibly high heels, she was at least six feet tall, and her jet-black hair was cut into a blunt, shoulder-length bob, her eyes were bright blue, her legs were long, and her breasts were clearly not original equipment. She wore a scant latex dress that matched her eyes, and her expression was beautifully blank, until she recognized Victor at last, and brightened.

“Victor? Je Nederlands is er niet beter op geworden hoor ik...” Her brightness was compelling, but short-lived, her countenance turning dark the moment she noticed the state of his face. “Godverdomme – ben je aan’t bloeden?”

“’Fraid so, Bet.” Victor said, dabbing at the cut on his face.

“Idioot,” She said, with a roll of her eyes, and without missing a beat, she switched to English. “Wait right there.”

Two minutes later the front door opened – just wide enough for Betje to hand Victor an icepack. “I’m not going to ask,” she said, curtly, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Probably a good idea.” Victor said, his body only slightly unsteady, but the liquor on his breath was impossible to ignore.

“Oh, good, and drunk, too,” She sighed, shooting a disapproving look to both men. Her gaze lingered on Greg’s hazel eyes for a moment before she shifted her attention back to the American. “Look, Victor, pretty as you are, I’m not letting you or your friend inside until you sober up. You know the drill: Teddy’s. Waffle breakfast. Three cups of coffee. Then come back, am I understood?”

Greg was cowed by this recitation, but Victor was unfazed. Pressing the icebag to his face, he dutifully nodded, tongue firmly in cheek. “Yes, Meesteres,” he said with a slow wink, and promptly headed off to Teddy’s, with Greg firmly in tow.

 

****

 

**1:51am**

It took over an hour to get to Teddy’s Corner (a diner-type restaurant off the Warmoesstraat), to eat their meals and to drink their coffees. When Victor placed their orders, the man behind the counter gave them a knowing smile. “Waffles and coffees? Tell Betje I said hello!” he shouted after them, as they left the restaurant.

It was another twenty minutes just to get to walk back to Trompettersteeg, and in the last hour, the temperature had dropped. Greg presumed that was part of Betje’s sober plan – on the way to Teddy’s, they’d passed plenty of restaurants, but Teddy’s required a twenty minute walk in the cold, both there and back, and that, along with the carbohydrates and caffeine, had certainly cleared their heads. Clever, clever girl…

“Your friend’s name is Betje.” Greg said, his voice shivering from the cold, on the walk back.

“Yes.”

“But you called her something different when we left, something in Dutch?”

Victor gave a small smile. “Yes. ‘Meesteres’.”

“Right,” said Greg, anticipating the other man’s answer. “Care to translate?”

“Certainly.” Victor replied, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “In English, ‘meesteres’ means ‘ ‘Mistress’.” He turned to see the biker’s reaction.

Greg’s breath slowed. “Wh-why would you call her that?”

Victor shrugged.  “What else should I have called her? She’s a Domme, after all.”

One suspicion confirmed, Greg swallowed, hard, and moved on to the next one. “Is she _your_ Domme?”

“Once or twice.” Victor admitted, freely. “Not really my thing, I’m a Dom, not a switch, but she’s more experienced than me, and education is never a waste.”

Greg considered that, tried to imagine Victor serving Betje, but couldn’t quite picture it. Maybe the image of Victor-as-Dom was already too cemented in his psyche, or maybe he was still a little drunk, despite their strict adherence to Betje’s plan. “So, we didn’t just show up here by chance, did we? You planned this.”

“Don’t be coy,” Victor said with a smirk. “I saw the state of your trousers when she gave us our marching orders. Zero to sixty, Road Rash. You need this.”

Greg blushed, his cheeks already reddened from the cold, and took a drag from his cigarette. “What if I’m not ready?”

“You tell me no and we’ll go do something different.” Victor said, matter-of-factly. “Are you attracted to her?”

Greg chewed on his bottom lip, the answer obvious: who wouldn’t be attracted to her? Of course he wanted to rush that red room and have her, but…he was with Victor, now, wasn’t he? “I’m confused. I thought we were, I mean…” he trailed off.

Victor stopped. “We can be whatever we want us to be,” he said, reassuringly. “We’re not going steady. And even if we were, I would encourage you not to miss a night with Betje.”

Greg smiled shyly, already feeling desire surfacing. “Will you stay and watch?”

Victor threw his arm over Greg’s shoulder. “Just try and keep me away.”

 

****

**1:59am**

An older man, presumably Betje’s most recent customer, brushed past them on the stairs up to her front door.  Greg eyed him, and couldn’t help but wonder how he’d been serviced, imagining what Betje might have offered him and he shivered again – but this time, it wasn’t because he was cold.

Victor rapped on the window once more, and once more, Bet went out to the door, opening it a crack. “Are you sober?”

“Of course,” Victor said emphatically. “And buzzing on three cups of coffee. Can we come in? It’s fucking cold out here!”

Betje ushered them into the main room, the red room that overlooked the street. The curtains were open. Most Red Light District prostitutes work out of one-room cabins that they rent by the day, but Betje’s window let out onto a much bigger room than expected. She’d inherited the house from an aunt and she’d realized with some slight remodeling of the space, she could live and work in the same space, and still keep a single cabin, upstairs, to let.

“Introductions?” Betje asked once they’d settled in the sitting area at the furthest point from the window. This was where she’d negotiate with clients, and accept payment. Greg took a seat on the couch, and Victor slouched into the cozy armchair, pulling an ashtray into his lap. Betje perched on his armrest and they both eyed Greg. Bet prompted Victor with a jab to the ribs. “Don’t be rude, Victor. Introductions, please.”

“Of course,” Victor said, and soundlessly offered her a cigarette, which she declined. “Betje, meet Greg, Greg this is the very beautiful Betje. Behave yourself.”

Greg tipped his head, but kept his eyes on the floor, uncertain what the expected etiquette was. “Nice to meet you…” he paused, reaching for the pronunciation.

Victor came to his rescue. “Meesteres.”

“Meesteres,” He repeated. The word felt strange on his lips.

She stood up, and joined Greg on the couch. “Nice to meet you, Greg.” She replied, and played with his hair, absently, before turning to Victor. “Waar is’ t Konijntje?”

“Hij kon niet komen deze keer.” Victor explained. Betje had a soft spot for Rabbit, and no doubt she’d been surprised to see Victor here with someone else. 

She nodded, knowingly, and turned her attention to the boy beside her. “Deze is schattig, dat wel,” she said, drawing her finger along the curve of Greg’s jawline. He huffed out a breath as she did. “Hij heeft er zin in…”

Victor smiled. “Hij is onderdanig...”

The back and forth conversation between Victor and Betje should have been frustrating to Greg, because he didn’t speak Dutch, but he found it oddly calming. Their quiet tones, the idea that he was, perhaps, being spoken about without understanding what was being said, was alarmingly seductive. It pushed him, ever so slightly, into subspace, and he relaxed into his surroundings. 

Eventually, their conversation became more matter-of-fact, more businesslike, and Greg realized, with some strange pleasure, that it had become a _negotiation_. Her hands never left him during this part of the discussion, drifting down from his jaw to his neck, to his arms down to his thighs, but her stroking felt disconnected, distant, as if he were an inanimate object, which he supposed, at that point, he was to her. If what he was listening to really was a negotiation, he was just a possibility to her at that point, not yet a real client…and that made him fold in on himself in a way he could never have anticipated.

“Hij _is_ schattig,” she said, with the tiniest bit of regret in her voice. By this time, her hand was firmly sliding over the front of Greg’s jeans, making him gasp before she stopped, abruptly. “Maar niets is gratis.”

Victor nodded. “Of course,” he said, and reached into his pocket, removing a small stack of bills and placing them on the coffee table between him and Greg. Betje nodded, and took the bills, leaving them alone while she took the money into another room.

Alone now, with Greg, Victor leaned back in the chair, pleased with himself, and eyed the other man’s now-obvious erection. “How does it feel to see me pay someone to fuck you, Greg?” he asked, with the tilt of his head.

“Victor…don’t, I…” Greg stammered, adrift.

“Come here,” Victor said, prompting him to come sit in his lap, straddle his thighs, in a tone that could not be refused – and Greg didn’t hesitate to comply. “You lose your words so quickly. On the one hand, it’s charming. But on the other, communication is half the fun,” he said, and Greg began to writhe in his lap. “Now, last time I’ll ask: how does it feel to see me pay someone to fuck you?”

Greg’s mouth was open, his breathing heavy, and the feel of Victor’s body against his was maddening. “It makes me feel…bad, and good at the same time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Bad because it makes me feel like I’m worthless, that she wouldn’t touch me, otherwise.” Greg said, his arms on Victor’s shoulders, his hips working against him.

“Mm-hmm. And good, how?”

Greg lifted his eyes to Victor’s. “Good because you think I’m worth the investment.” He smiled, and Victor smiled back, but Greg’s expression turned worried after a moment. “Now, about the money...”

Victor ran his finger across Greg’s lips. “Don’t worry about the money.”

“That’s a lovely sight,” Betje interrupted upon returning to the room, seeing them both in the armchair. “English from now on?”

Victor nodded. “Yes. As much as I think Greg has enjoyed being in the dark, I think he’ll enjoy understanding what we’re saying from here on out.”

She moved to where they sat, running her perfectly manicured fingernails along the backs of Greg’s thighs. “Tell me what he likes?”

Victor lifted Greg's shirt, and ran his hands down his chest, plucking at his nipples and pulling them until it was just outside the Brit’s comfort level. He couldn't help but smile at the soft sounds that he made. “Ass play, public play, definitely. He’s a psycho little risk taker, bit of a danger junkie, races motorcycles, so definitely make his heart race and you’ll get some payoff.”

“Is that true, Greg?” He felt Betje pull something taut under his chin – something that smelled of rubber and felt coarse against his skin, what he’d later find out was a paracord-wrapped rubber tawse – and it should have made him nervous, he knew, but at the moment, all he felt was fucking gorgeous distress at being played with by two pairs of hands.

“Yes, Meesteres,” he rasped, and struggled against the restraint.

 She made a pleased noise, before turning her attention back to Victor. “Anything to avoid?”

“He dislikes pet names,” Victor said, twisting his flesh now, making the skin pink and the skin harden. “He’s new to boys, so his oral skills there are still developing. Don’t know about with girls. Other than that, I’m presuming we’ll be avoiding the usual – Greg, tell me if I’ve assumed incorrectly on any of these – no watersports, no knives, nothing that might leave permanent damage.”

“Breathplay?” She pulled at Greg’s hair, tugging pleasantly, admiring the stretch of his throat.

“No,” Victor said, automatically.

“Um?” Greg piped in, nervously, and they both turned their attention to him. “I-I think I would actually like that.”

Victor shook his head, definitively and locked eyes with Greg. “No. Too dangerous. But if you play nice, I’ve something in mind that’s guaranteed to scare you, alright?”

“You’re in charge, Sir.” Greg said. He wasn’t pleased, but the very act of the words made him accept it.

“Which reminds me,” Betje said, and bent down, leaning into Greg’s ear. “One last thing. I know you don’t speak Dutch, but you will need to learn one phrase if you are to entertain me. Say this after me: ‘Ja, als je wilt’. Can you say that?”

Victor smiled, not having heard those words in quite some time. Greg repeated the words back, clumsily, and she made him repeat it until he pronounced it correctly.

“Would you like to know what it means?” she asked. The man nodded his head, just as Victor shifted his still-clothed hips even harder against him. 

“It means ‘yes, as you wish’,” she said, tightening the tawse against his throat, “and I expect to hear that from your lips a lot today.”

He whimpered, and whispered “Ja, als je wilt.”

She kissed him on the top of his head, and turned to Victor. “He knows his safeword?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” Betje said, and pulled back, eyeing Victor. “Let’s begin.”

  

 

****

 

**2:18am**

Before they got things underway, they heard feet on the stairs outside, and a door close from above. “Ah,” Betje said, “Frankie’s free.” She turned her eyes to Victor, who had since moved to the couch, so he could better see the play space. “Now, there’s an idea.”

“I’d love to visit with Frankie,” Victor mused.

“She’d certainly love to see you,” Bet teased, as she walked the length of the window, pulling the red curtain closed. “And you did say Greg loves an audience. Will he be okay with an audience like Frankie?”

“Greg doesn’t get to choose his audience,” rumbled Victor. “Call her.”

 

****

 

**2:32am**

The next hour would prove to be the single-most debauched hour of Greg’s life to date (not that he’d experienced that much debauchery to begin with)…

It started with the arrival of Frankie from upstairs. She was Indonesian, a delicate slip of a thing in a short blue satin robe, and she beamed when she saw Victor on the couch. He smiled, and introduced her to Greg. Moments later, when Frankie curled up beside Victor on the couch, the hem of her robe rode up, and Greg suddenly understood what the blue lights meant.

He was surprised, and utterly shocked by the fact that he wasn’t shocked.

“Center of the room, Greg,” Betje said, and the boy did as he was told. She pulled at his hips to adjust him just so, so he was facing the couple on the couch. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” she murmured. Greg nodded, mesmerized by the scene. “Of course, Victor is, too. Do you like them watching you?”

“Y-yes, Meesteres,” he whispered, voice shaky.

“You filthy thing.” She cupped him then, pressed her fingers hard against his clothed cock. “Show them. Show me. Take off your clothes.”

“Ja, als je wilt,” he said, the Dutch words still strange on his tongue. He shot a glance to Victor, who gave him a nod. Without taking his eyes off them, Greg pulled his t-shirt off over his head, in one swift move. His shoes, jeans and pants followed, but it was hardly a strip tease. It was Greg revealing himself, layer by layer, to their eager eyes, and it was thrilling and, and shameful and their assessing looks made him ache in all the best ways.

He felt the first kiss of the tawse when Betje directed him to his knees, when she stood over him and lifted her dress, pressing his face fast between her legs. He’d never sucked a girl through a dental dam, but he quickly adjusted, adding pressure to compensate. She tapped the tawse lightly against his back, helping him keep pace, tapping harder when she needed his attention. When she finally pushed him away, Greg was out of breath, turning to see Victor and Frankie both lazily stroking themselves, leaning their weight into one another, an attentive audience.

“How was he, Betje?” Victor asked, with a smile. “Your cheeks are flushed.”

She shot him a look. “No bad. He shows promise, but needs direction.” She lifted Greg’s chin with her fingers. “You do have a sweet little mouth, though.”

“Not sure if I believe you, Bet,” Frankie said, with a playful look. “I may need more evidence.”

Betje smirked. ”You may have something there...”

Victor affected a serious tone. “First hand experience _is_ invaluable. What do you think, Greg? Want to show Frankie how you use that mouth?”

“Please,” he said, with not a moment of hesitation. Betje snapped his arse with the tawse to get him to move quickly, to where Frankie sat, and suddenly he was on his knees, facing this beautiful woman with this beautiful cock.

“You _are_ handsome, aren’t you?” Frankie said, with a reassuring smile. She brushed the hair out of his eyes, and then untied the belt of her robe. “I promise there’s nothing here that you haven’t seen before, sweetheart.”

Greg’s pulse pounded in his ears as he parted the satin of her robe, revealing golden skin, hairless and sweet-smelling. Greg reached his hand out for Victor’s as Frankie slipped on a condom. He took Frankie’s cock into his mouth, the slide of his tongue making her close her eyes and let out a small, breathless sigh.

Victor caught Betje’s eye, and they both recognized the opportunities at hand. They descended upon Greg, Victor gripping the man’s aching cock and stroking it, priming it for the thick rubber ring that Betje silently passed to him. Greg let out a gutteral moan as he felt the ring’s pressure and weight, and the moan sent vibrations along Frankie’s cock that sent her gripping the couch cushions.

“Very good, Greg,” Betje whispered in his ear. “Make her cum, or else you won’t.” She slapped his arse hard with her hand, and left him to Frankie and Victor for the moment.

 Victor put his hand to the cheek that Bet had slapped, felt the warmth spreading against the palm of his hand, and slapped the other cheek to balance it out. Greg moaned again, and only got louder when the American parted both of his cheeks and spit on the Brit’s wanting, still-tender hole. Greg arched his back, begging for it, and Victor complied, pressing his middle finger inside.

As he did, Victor reached his other hand around, and gripped the back of Frankie’s neck, pulling her to him until they were kissing deeply over Greg’s bent back. Greg increased his pace, feeling Frankie surge and tighten in his mouth.

“It’s a shame no one’s recording this,” Betje said, returning with a small plug and a bottle of lube in her hands.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Victor said, breaking off the kiss to assist Betje. “Oh, good thinking,” he crooned, seeing the plug. “That will help for what I was thinking about for later.”

Greg felt two pairs of hands part his cheeks, thoroughly lubricate him and clinically discuss the state of his hole. All the while, Frankie was pressing ever more insistently against his throat, gasping and rocking and fuck, Greg had never been so aroused. Having all of this attention, all of these eyes on him, it was pure bliss, bliss made better when Victor and Betye forced the plug inside him, shoving him forward abruptly, jolting Frankie’s cock deeper into his throat. The shock of the move was sudden enough to push Frankie’s over the edge. She gripped Greg’s hair, holding his head in place while she rode out the orgasm.

“Oh, god,” she groaned, once the spasms had stopped, and she gestured to them all. “The three of you are dangerous together. Christ,” she giggled, stopping to stroke the biker. “And Greg, you really do have a sweet mouth.”

He blushed, and clumsily thanked her for the compliment. Frankie went into the back to clean up, and as she did, Betje experimentally pulled at the plug in Greg’s arse, just to watch him shudder. She let it go, and watched his body pull it back in on it’s own. “You’re so hungry for it, aren’t you Greg? Look at the way your body pulls it back in.”

She lifted him up onto his feet. He stood, shakily at first, the feel of the plug shifting inside him with the new position. It felt tight and aggressive, and impossible to ignore. Victor moved to steady him, standing behind him, while Betje moved in front. She looked him squarely in the eyes and held his gaze.

“You love this,” she said, and as she did, she undid the clasp at the top of her dress.

“We could make you do anything, couldn’t we?” The open clasp revealed a zipper underneath, hidden by a latex plackete.

“I mean, you’re agreeable. Victor comes on the scene and you suddenly like boys.” She lowered the zipper several inches.

“Frankie comes around and you’re suddenly open to transwomen.” A few more inches.

“Now, I’ve got nothing to reveal to you, no big surprise,” A few more inches, and by this time, the zipper was down to her belly. She eased the dress down to the floor, baring her breasts and eventually, the rest of her body. She brought his hands to her chest.

“But I can tell you, Greg,” she said. “You are exceptionally dirty. Want to know how I know?”

“Yes, Meestriese.”

She took a step closer. He could feel the brush of her public hair against his restrained cock, and the hardening of her nipples against his palms.

She shot him a most charming smile. “Because I know that the next time Victor pulls that plug out of your ass, you’re going to beg to suck on it, like a lollipop.”

“Oh, god,” Greg whined, his mind buzzing past the potential health risks to imagining the look on her face if he did as she asked.

“What do you say, Greg?” she asked, eyebrow arched. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m not sure if tha—“

She interrupted him, with a jaw-jarring slap to the face, a slap so hard it brought tears to his eyes. From behind him, Victor let out a little moan himself, just from the way the sound echoed and reverberated in the room.

“Two choices, Greg,” she said, gripping his cock and balls in one of her hands. “Safeword, or comply. Neither of those responses begin with ’I’m not sure’.”

Victor spun the plug inside Greg, twisting it, stretching him until the biker honestly didn’t think he could take anymore.

“Ja - Ja als je wilt,” he said, stuttering over the words. “As you wish, please…”

Betje smiled knowingly, and nodded to Victor, who pressed the plug in deep, and slowly pulled it out, anticipation building.

Frankie returned just in time to watch Victor hand it to Betje, and returned to her place on the couch, eager to watch the show.

Betje took the plug, and placed the tip on Greg’s lower lip. “Show me how dirty you are, Greg. Prove it to me. Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

He did as she commanded, ready to accept the plug into his mouth. Meanwhile, she swapped the plug from his ass with a clean, lube-covered duplicate that Victor had prepped while she’d stripped out of her dress.

“Filthy thing, this is me fucking your mouth,” she said, and twisted the duplicate inside, pulling it out and letting it linger on his lips before pushing it back inside. At the same time, Victor knelt down and licked at Greg’s gaping asshole, his tongue wide.

Greg whimpered, and the combination of the perceived taste in his mouth, the sensation at his hole, the touch of Betje’s breasts against his chest and the feel of Frankie’s eyes watching it was all too much.

“May I…” he begged, the next time she pulled it out. “May I cum, please, Meestriese?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “But soon. Your time here is nearly up,” she said, and popped the vibe back in his mouth. “This stays here for now.” She turned to Victor. “Now: why don’t we talks about this scary idea of yours, yes?”

 

****

 

**3:14am**

Public indecency laws in Amsterdam are funny, even at three in the morning. There are naked women all over town in strip clubs, live sex shows at Casa Rosso every fifteen minutes, and there’s even a public park where public sex is permitted _by law_. But live sex in Red Light District windows? Decidedly not allowed.

Lucky for Greg, there are workarounds.

That’s why, at 3:14 that morning, Greg found himself naked and bent over a wide console table that stretched nearly from one side of the window to the other. The plug was still in his mouth, and as for the curtain?

Well, the curtain was wide open.

To stay legal, the table that Greg was bent over was solid, and the only part of him that was visible to onlookers were his arms, his shoulders, and his face.

It was enough.

Before they’d opened the curtains, Betje, Frankie and Victor all made sure to get fully dressed, as they’d be within plain sight as well. Betje and Frankie were huddled over some gear on the coffeetable, and Victor sat with Greg, watching the small crowd gather outside the window, one by one.

He removed the plug from the biker’s mouth. “Still good, Road Rash?”

The man had gone practically non-verbal the moment they’d suggested the idea, but when he did talk, he’d begged them to do it. Victor could almost see the adrenaline rush over him.

“Yeah. Yes. Oh my god, please Victor, let me cum.”

He shook his head, and petted the man’s back. “Not yet. We’re still working out the last surprise.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “What more could you possibly surprise me with?”

“Oh, just you wait.” There was a hum from the back of the room, and a triumphant cheer from the girls. Victor lifted his brow. “And there it is.”

That’s when Betje and Frankie brought over the e-stim machine, and Victor explained the concept.

Greg was amazed. “People really do this? Electrocute themselves for fun?”

Victor nodded, intentionally playing up the danger aspect to appeal to Greg’s daredevil instincts. The truth of the matter was, if you follow the rules, e-stim can be perfectly safe and something that people with bad backs have been using for years. It just took one special person with a vibrator and a nine volt battery to turn it into something kinky, and today, Greg would be the next to benefit from that discovery.

“I mean,” Victor said, casually, “it’s _mostly_ safe. For most people. Right, Betje?”

“Oh yeah, right,” she grinned, “There’s just the slimmest chance of danger.”

Greg licked his lips, horrified and loving it. “I mean, seriously, could I die?”

“Die?” Victor asked, and considered it. “Not die, no. And there’s a hospital just up the road, anyway.”

Betje held the electrical leads in her hands. “What do you say, Greg. Feeling lucky?”

Greg lifted his chin. “You’re damn right I am!”

 

****

**3:18am**

The sound alone was jarring, to say the least. The buzz brought to mind trips to the dentist, and the e-stim box itself, sprouting wires, with multiple knobs and dials, looked like something that someone half-assed in their garage. It didn’t inspire confidence, but as such, it did inspire arousal in the adrenaline junkie splayed out over the table.

A crowd of about twenty people had gathered outside. “Enjoy it, you filthy little pervert,” Victor said, before kissing him gently on the cheek and moving out of the way, so Betje could do her worst. The leads connected the box to a small medical grade aluminum dildo. She lifted it for the crowd to see, much to their delight.

“They love watching you like this, Greg,” she said to him “And they’re going to love watching you cum.”

“You think it will?” He asked, and felt her hands on his cock, behind the table. “Make me cum, I mean?”

“It can,” she said. “I’ve certainly seen it happen. But between the edging you’ve had this evening, the crowd out there, and the electric current, I don’t think there’s a chance you won’t climax, do you?”

He reddened, and looked out to the people outside, ashamed and god, so, so ready.

“Alright, you dirty thing. Here we go.” She slipped the dildo in place, and removed the ring from his cock before nodding to Frankie, who expertly turned the dials. The box came to life on the table, and the rod came to life inside of Greg.

It was like sensations he’d had before in his life – the tingle you feel when your leg falls asleep, the throb of bass at a concert – but ramped up, intensified and targeted to a single place in your body. As the intensity rose, Greg began to grit his teeth, his body reflexively fighting it, muscles tensing, his jaw clenching. It didn’t hurt, not by any standard definition of hurt, but he couldn’t help letting loose with a slow keening noise.

Victor joined Bet at his side. “Good?”

“Yess, yeah. Very fucking good.” He said through clenched teeth. “Touch me. Both of you. Please” He sputtered, and both Betje and Victor began to stroke him, cupping his balls, whispering almost inaudible things in his ear, comforting sounds that peaked with him. Outside, the crowd moved closer to the window, jeering and hooting, and when Greg reached maximum recommended voltage, he couldn’t hold back any longer, cumming behind the table, his muscles involuntarily tensing and twitching.

The crowd dispersed quickly after the show ended, and the boys took their cue from them, bidding sincere goodbyes to both Betje and Frankie before finally heading back to D’s, sated, safe and suddenly, quite sleepy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously fun chapter to write. (Sometimes I worry about myself…)
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- [Betje’s dress](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/02/e9/20/02e9201e53d3ac7c8681d7b6ee7d86a3.jpg) (not exactly as I imagined, but this one will do) 
> 
> \- [Teddy’s Corner](http://teddyscorner.nl/menuweb.pdf) looks like the perfect place for a midnight snack (but eat quick because, IRL it closes at 1AM!)
> 
> \- How do you pronounce [“Meesteres”](http://www.forvo.com/word/meesteres/)? (Also, scroll down for Dutch translations)
> 
> \- [Frankie's robe](http://cdn.yourcloudparade.com/uploads/stores/821/21237.jpg)
> 
> \- [Rubber Tawse, wrapped in paracord](http://www.ebay.com/itm/Rubber-Tawse-Paddle-with-Red-Accents-NEW-/261866564000?pt=LH_DefaultDomain_0&hash=item3cf876a9a0) (Ouch!)
> 
> \- Public sex in the park wasn’t actually legalized until 2008, but [it actually is legal](http://www.dutchamsterdam.nl/278-vondelpark)… (and P.S., I don’t really know if sex is illegal in Red Light District windows. I couldn’t find a single ordinance, so I decided to play it safe. Err, unlike Greg. ;-p)
> 
> \- [This is the e-stim device used on Greg](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UdTvjndrxk), with [box detail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8RhR4odD1o) here. PLEASE NOTE: This fic does not endorse or condemn use of e-stim prodcuts, but if you indulge, friends, please follow all the safety rules. Friends don’t let friends get electrocuted by their dildos, you savvy? PLAY SAFE!
> 
> This one was in just under the wire! Hope you enjoyed Greg’s red light adventure, and do send love Indy’s way, she was a tremendous help!  
> See you in two weeks, loveys!  
>  <3  
>  vex.
> 
>  
> 
> DUTCH LINES TRANSLATED  
> (With much love to Indybaggins!):  
> “Hoi Betje! (Hey Betje!)” Victor rapped on the main floor window. “Ben je thuis? (Are you home?)”
> 
> “Geduld, lieverd, gedraag je! (Patience, my darling! Behave!)” A shout came from through the glass.
> 
> Victor smiled as the figure approached. “Hang on,” he said to Greg, and peered into the window. “Ben je bezig? Het is Victor! Lang niet gezien… (Are you busy? It’s Victor! Long time no see!)”* 
> 
> “Victor? Je Nederlands is er niet beter op geworden hoor ik... (Your Dutch hasn’t gotten any better...)” Her brightness was compelling, but short-lived, her countenance turning dark the moment she noticed the state of his face. “Godverdomme – ben je aan’t bloeden? (Godammit, are you bleeding?)”
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> “Waar is’ t Konijntje? (Where is little Rabbit?)”
> 
> “Hij kon niet komen deze keer. (He couldn’t make it this time.)” Victor explained. Betje had a soft spot for Rabbit, and no doubt she’d been surprised to see Victor here with someone else. 
> 
> She nodded, knowingly, and turned her attention to the boy beside her. “Deze is schattig, dat wel, (This one’s cute, though.” she said, drawing her finger along the curve of Greg’s jawline. He huffed out a breath as she did. “Hij heeft er zin in…(Eager…)”
> 
> Victor smiled. “Hij is onderdanig...(He is submissive...)”
> 
> “Hij is schattig, (He is adorable,)” she said, with the tiniest bit of regret in her voice. By this time, her hand was firmly sliding over the front of Greg’s jeans, making him gasp before she stopped, abruptly. “Maar niets is gratis. (But nothing’s for free).”
> 
>  
> 
> _*Intentionally translated to sound awkward, as Victor is far from fluent._


	19. 3:21pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day trip outside the city leads to an emotional aftermath inside the city.

 

**_Some individuals might also experience wild or unexpected mood swings the first couple of days following the use of MDMA._ **

[www.addictionhelpline.com](http://www.addictionhelpline.com/ecstasy.php) 

 

**3:21pm**

All things said and done, the day might have gone better if Greg had followed his first instinct the next morning, which had been to just stay in bed for the rest of the day. He was hungover – although it could have been worse, thank you Betje – but more than anything, he was sore and tired, right down to his very core. It felt like the events of the last few mad, manic days were catching up to him all at once, and he buried himself deeper in the sheets when Victor tried to rouse him.

“Wake up, we have places to go, people to see!” Victor said, sounding both alert and caffeinated, neither of which appealed to Greg at the moment – but then he said the thing, the magic thing that made Greg peel away the covers and reconsider life outside the duvet. 

“Come on, slowpoke,” Victor said, with a casual air and a crafty smile. “We can take the bike…”

 

 

****

 

**3:43pm**

Climbing back on to the Velocette Venom Thruxton felt like coming home, and Greg felt a ridiculous pang of guilt for not taking it out yesterday. 

 _Inanimate object, yes,_ he admitted, _but even so_ , _this bike has soul._

Key turned, the engine revved to life, and the sound of it idling beneath him was both reassuring and sobering. It reassured him that he had, in fact, had a life before the events of the last 48 hours, before Amsterdam, before Victor - but at the same time, it sobered him to the fact that it was a life he couldn’t ever return to. He pushed away the thought, pressing his hand hard against the gearbox and letting himself get lost in the vibration. It was familiar, constant, and, he realized, vaguely reminiscent of the feel of the e-stim from the previous night. He shifted pleasantly at the memory.

“What are you grinning about?” Victor teased, exiting the canal house with his leather jacket zipped. “Boys and their toys, man…”

“Well, as we’ve discussed, I’m nobody’s ‘boy’,” Greg said, correcting him, and then helped himself to the half-smoked cigarette out of the other man’s hand. He took a drag. “But I am becoming quite fond of toys.”

“Hmm, you made that crystal-clear last night,” Victor leered, helmet dangling from his fingers. He took the cigarette back and inhaled deeply before pitching it into the canal. He threw his leg over the bike and straddled the seat behind Greg.

Moments later, it was the biker’s turn to inhale deeply, taking a sharp, sudden intake of breath as his passenger pressed forward, arcing his hips until Greg was reminded of exactly why the drive from France had been so very challenging. This time, Victor latched onto Greg’s waist without hesitation, speaking in to his ear, “We’re not expected anywhere until later tonight, so let’s go for a drive.”

“Really?” Greg turned to him, beaming. “You don’t mind if I tear it up a little?”

Victor shot him a sly smile before he put on his helmet, purring, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, Road Rash.”

Greg gunned the engine then, and pulled out onto the cobblestone street, dodging pedestrians and bicycles, in and around the canals until hitting a main artery, heading west beyond the Canal Center. Victor indicated the places to turn with small squeezes to Greg’s side, pointing when clearer direction was needed. He took them to the A200 motorway towards Haarlem, which gave way to the N200, and that’s where Greg opened up the engine, tipping the speedometer back towards The Ton mark whenever traffic allowed.

20 kilometers later and Greg found himself staring at the North Sea.

He pulled the bike over, to the side of the road and the edge of the beach. He stood and removed his helmet. “That was a good run, wasn’t it? That last bit.”

Victor stayed on the bike, but pulled off his helmet as well. “Not bad at all.”

“Wouldn’t take you for a beach kind of guy, but it’s gorgeous. Wish I had my swim suit.” He squinted in the sun, and looked at the other man expectantly. “You planning on getting off the bike?”

Victor shook his head, with a knowing smile.

“So,” Greg said slowly, “So…we’re not there yet, is what you’re saying?”

“Almost.” Victor replied, and then pointed behind him and said. “ _Listen._ ”

The biker looked at him with confusion, and then closed his eyes, filtering out the sounds of the motorway they’d just left, the tourists on the beach, the sounds of the seabirds and that’s when he heard it. “Victor?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“That sounds like a _racetrack_.”

 

****

 

**4:02pm**

“Circuit Park Zandvoort,” Victor drawled, “Biggest track in Holland. Auto racing today, but they do bikes sometimes.”

The man at the ticket booth let them in for free – only an hour and some change left before the last race, and Greg was pretty sure that Victor has slipped the man something from that plastic baggie in his pocket to sweeten the deal.

“We’ll have to come out next time they do bikes.” Greg said, as they made their way out onto the concourse.

“Hmm?” Victor said, distractedly, scouting out a pair of seats in the sun. The temperature had dipped a bit during their ride, and they were both looking to warm up. “Oh yeah, sure. Whenever you want.”

It was the end of the motorsport season, and neither of them knew enough about racecars to know what they were watching, but they put their feet up and drank beer, ate fried croquettes from the concession stand and cheered for the underdog. They got used to the smell of the exhaust, but the sound was a whole other thing.

“My Dad wore earplugs when he went to watch Nascar,” Victor said, shouting over the drone. “Now I know why.”

“Mate, I don’t care,” Greg grinned, and hugged him tight. “This is fantastic!”

Victor leaned down, kissed his cheek and his ear and then rumpled his hair. “You want another beer?”

“Yeah, but,” Greg answered, and stood up. “Let me get this round, yeah?”

He made his way to the bar at the end of the pit complex, enjoying the garage smells, that permeated the space: oil and petrol, metal and industrial soap. He felt entirely in his element, in this place, and while he preferred bikes to cars, it was all the same. Gearheads were gearheads, all part of his tribe.

Without a window onto the racetrack, Greg was surprised to find that the bar was full, until he realized that the race was being simulcast to two wall-mounted television monitors that flanked the bartop, ensuring that even the circuit’s thirstiest patrons wouldn’t have to miss a single lap. Racing memorabilia covered the walls, including a whole side panel of a racecar, along with photos and framed newspaper headlines, racing uniforms and more than a few trophies. He moved to the bar and leaned in, waiting to catch the busy bartender’s eye.

While he waited, he listened to the chatter of the three men clustered beside him, underneath the monitor, who were adding “color commentary” to the race as it went on. They were a working class sort, the kind of guys who knew one end of a wrench from the other,  who could diagnose exactly what was wrong with a car just from the sound of it driving into the shop. They could just as easily have been Paul and Nick standing there, smoking too many cigarettes and drinking the cheapest beer on tap. They’d go home after the race and have a few in the pub, maybe get in a fight and then go home to their wives or girlfriends, if they had them. If not, porn would suffice, or video games, or more beer and then they’d pass out on the couch, wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

“No, no, no, I’m telling you, Ekström came into this cocky. Now look at him – two positions behind—“ said the older one, pointing at the monitor, a shot of _ginever_ in his hand.

The bartender arrived, and Greg quietly ordered two beers, keeping his eye on the monitor, listening to the conversation beside him.

“He’s in better shape than Vietoris, his tires have got to be ragged after skipping that last pit stop,” said the taller one.

“That’s nothing next to Wittman – he’s throwing enough debris that he might take out the lot of them!” exclaimed the one with the beard, and the other two laughed.

“Well, that’s be a win by default, wouldn’t he? Not a bad strategy.” Greg said with a laugh, edging into the conversation. The three men turned their heads, but they didn’t offer even a courtesy laugh. _Maybe it was a language thing_ , Greg thought, and made an attempt to speak more clearly. “I mean, a win is a win, right?” 

The older man turned sharply away, without a word, and stared belligerently into the TV with an aggressive stance. That’s when Greg realized he’d fucked up. Maybe he’d insulted their favorite driver, or somehow insulted the integrity of the circuit, maybe even the sport. Shit…

He started to apologize to the older man. “Look, mate, I didn’t mean to say tha—“

The taller one interrupted him. “Oh, he’s not your mate, now is he?”

Greg was confused. “I’m sorry?”

“No, he can’t be,” said the bearded one, responding to the taller one. “ _His_ mate’s out there in the stands, isn’t he?” Beardy turned to Greg then, suddenly aggressive. “You being a good little wife, waiting on your man, then?”

Greg bit the inside of his cheek, finally catching on to what was happening. He turned, and dropped money for the beer on the counter.

“Disgusting the way you people think it’s okay to carry on like that in public.” Beardy spat, “It’s not decent.”

Greg exhaled slowly, and resisted the urge to throw a punch. “You’re an arsehole,” he said to Beardy, just as the bartender slid his pints across the bar.

“Better than being a _vuile_ _nicht_ ,” he replied, and rolled his shoulder, the motherfucker, just begging for a brawl.

“Sometimes,” Greg said, “I’m really glad that I don’t speak Dutch.” He picked up the pints and turned to leave. He wasn’t about to give that cunt what he wanted.

But the cunt, it seems, was intent on having the last word.

“I’ll insult you in English, then” he laughed, shouting after him. “Go run back to your boyfriend, you _poof_! Better yet leave the circuit altogether. This place is for real men, not _fairies_!”

His tribe, but not his tribe.

His tribe, turned against him. 

It took everything Greg had to keep moving, out of the bar and back down to the stands, abandoning the beers and collecting Victor. Then it took everything he had to keep Victor from charging into the bar and taking on the trio himself. 

“They’re ignorant, Greg, and they need to be taught a lesson.” Victor said, shoving him away.

“One more arrest and the police might not be so polite, alright?” Greg said, pulling him out of the complex. “Let’s just go.”

“Motherfuckers,” Victor said, seething. “There’s rednecks in every country. REDNECKS!” He shouted, as they passed the bar. 

By the time they reached the bike, their initial flares of anger had calmed, but hadn’t gone away, leaving both of them unsettled and quiet.

“You deal with that a lot?” Greg asked, not making eye contact, zipping up his coat.

“Sometimes.” Victor answered, loosening the chinstrap on his helmet. His lips were tight, “There’s still a lot of ignorant people in the world. Still, things are better than they were ten years ago. In another ten years, it may be better still.”

“Maybe.” Greg pressed his finger into the rubber of the front tire, ostensibly checking the pressure, but really he was just looking for a focal point that wasn’t the man beside him. Why couldn’t he look Victor in the eye?

“I know that was difficult. The first time is always the hardest.” Victor said, “And you, you kept your cool, that was smart. Kept me cool, too.” 

“Wish I’d fucking unhinged his jaw.” Greg spat, wanting something to swing at.

“Myself, I would’ve gone for a solid throat punch,” Victor said, “They never expect it and it hurts like hell. He would’ve gone down so fucking quick, probably would’ve cried like a baby, too…”

He made a face and it made Greg crack a small smile. “It’s not too late, you know. They’re probably still in there.” 

Victor shook his head. “No, you were right. Callahan and McClane can’t visit the station twice in two days. The best revenge is to force them to live out the rest of their miserable lives, anyway.” Victor sighed, and tentatively placed his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Look, let’s…not let this ruin things, alright?” 

Greg lifted his eyes finally, to Victor’s. “Yeah, okay. Let’s just…forget them,” he said, hoping that saying it would make it so. He put on his helmet. Victor followed his lead and they both got on the bike.

Greg revved the engine and lost himself in the drone of the engine all the way back to Amsterdam.

 

 

****

**6:26pm**

Greg drove so fast, they got back to Amsterdam before the sun had begun to set. Victor directed him as before, and it didn’t take long for Greg to realize that he wasn’t being directed back to the canal house. Instead, he found himself on a familiar route, back to the Red Light District.

“Where are we going?” he shouted over this shoulder when they stopped for a traffic light.

“Errand,” Victor explained, and pointed to his next turn.

Five minutes later, Greg was killing the engine outside an austere-looking black and grey storefront. The two large plate windows were barred against theft, and the words over the door read _Leather and Rubber; Piercings and Tattoos_.

“Errand?” Greg smirked, looking up. “Mate, my ‘To Do’ list would bore you senseless.”

They entered the shop, the front of it filled with racks of leatherwear and fetish clothing, the natural scent of tanned leather mixing with the artificial reek of rubber. Underneath it all, a base note of rubbing alcohol from the clinical-looking medical stations at the back, presumably where the piercings and tattoos were done.

“I’m not getting a tattoo.”

“I’m surprised you don’t already have one, rough thing like you,” Victor said, with a wink. “We’re not here for tattoos.”

That’s when the clerk approached them. Shaved bald, dressed in what Greg surmised to be a leather version of a police uniform.

“Alfred!” Victor said. “Was hoping I’d see a familiar face.”

“You again,” Alfred said, with an insincere smile, “Last time you were here, product just flew off the shelves.”

“I did look that good in the harness, didn’t I?”

“No, I meant literally flew – into your pockets,” Alfred said grimly.

Victor shrugged. “Yeah, well. D covered it, yeah?”

Alfred pinched his lips together. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Victor explained. “And you know how old school D can be, preferring The Bronx for fetish stuff -- so really, you should be _thanking_ me. My shoplifting meant business was taken away from your competitor!”

Greg watched this exchange with great interest. Shoplifting? He arched his brow at Victor, but the American was too busy deflecting Alfred’s attitude. 

 “What do you want, Victor?” Alfred asked, crossing his arms. “I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Victor said, looking around the empty store in amusement. “Anyway, two things, and you can help me with one: I need to replace a pair of regulation Dutch police handcuffs.”

Greg nodded, suddenly understanding the reason for the trip. _D’s handcuffs…_

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “What happened to the ones you had?

Greg smirked and looked away. Victor worked his jaw for a moment before answering. “They…ended up in an evidence locker at the police station.”

“Ridiculous,” The clerk said, barking out a mean little laugh as he placed the cuffs on the counter. “How’d you let that happen?”

Victor lifted his chin. “Long story.” He cleared his throat and nodded to the cuffs. “Those will do. Now, second: Is Xan in?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Alfred picked up the phone and dialed some numbers, speaking quietly into the receiver.

“Who’s Xan?” Greg whispered, not wanting to ask about the shoplifting until after they were free from Alfred’s bitchy glare. 

“His boss, my customer,” Greg said, quietly. “Five minutes of business and then we’ll be off. You’ll be okay for a moment?”

“Of course.” Greg said.  He vaguely remembered Victor talking about doing business in Amsterdam, and he was surprised it had taken Victor this long for him to connect with a client. _Smart,_ Greg thought. They’d both run out of money sooner rather than later, and as questionable as Victor’s business was, it was something, at least.

Alfred hung up the phone and nodded Victor upstairs, eyeing Greg with suspicion.  The biker conspicuously put his hands on the counter and pretended to be absorbed in the items displayed there – an extensive collection of leather collars and chains, all very masculine and sleek, and in no way “canine”. The leather ones came in varying widths, thin to thick, with all levels of D-rings and metal work adornment. One had spikes – okay, so that one was a little canine - and most of the wider ones had padding. He had an urge to touch them, to feel them beneath his fingers, but he doubted Alfred would allow it.

His eyes lingered on one of the thinner ones, thin enough to pass off as necklace.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

Greg looked up. Was this Alfred playing nice? “Yeah. Subtle.”

“Comes in a bunch of different colors, too.” 

“I think I like the black.”

“Boys like you always do,” Alfred said, with vague approval, and straightened when the bell on the door chimed.

A couple entered, two men, seemingly straight out of Central Casting – one Dom, one submissive. The Dom wore leather from head to toe, complete with the requisite motorcycle cap and flogger dangling from his waist. His body was big and his outfit was unflattering, but complimenting his body was clearly not his intention. His intention was simply to define who he was and what he wanted, in the loudest way possible. The sub, on the other hand, was slight, simpering, clad in black leather short-shorts, a rubber half-shirt and a crisscross of belts and buckles that even Greg could tell were far too numerous to be practical. The Dom bellowed “Slave! Come!” too often for the whole thing not to be a show of some sort, and each time, the sub would respond by rubbing up against “Master” like a cat, literally begging for some “cream”.

Alfred scurried to help the new arrivals, and Greg looked away, repelled, the pair hitting far too close to home. They were the worst clichés of everything he’d experimented with in the last few days – an embarrassment the universe whipped up just to remind him of the way things look to the rest of the world.  As grotesque as this couple’s performance was, was it any worse than his own performance had been in the window last night? Hardly. Was the disgust that he felt right now, watching them paw and flirt, was it akin to the disgust felt by the men at the racetrack bar when they looked at him and Victor? Very possibly.

Greg felt sick.

Victor emerged from the upstairs office, and collected him at the bottom of the steps, too pleased with the outcome of his quick meeting with Xan to notice Greg’s distress. He paid Alfred for the cuffs, pocketed them, and together, they headed out onto the street.

As Greg left, he made himself turn to look at the couple one last time, the image leaving a long-lasting impression…

 

 

 

 

****

 

**6:45pm**

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good,” Victor smiled, and led him up to the edge of the dock.

“This is a boat, Victor,” Greg said, as slowly as if he were explaining something to a child. They stood on the pavement behind Centraal Station, looking out at the large vessel currently floating in the IJ River.

“It’s a hotel boat, aka a ‘botel’,” explained Victor, “It’s got a restaurant and bar onboard, and a kick-ass view. Let’s go!”

He led the way to the gangplank of this large fiberglass boat. Smaller than a cruiseship, bigger than a yacht, the Amstel Botel had 175 inexpensive rooms to let. The restaurant was on the top deck, and the river breezes made it feel like standing on top of the world.

“How did you find this place?”

“It’s was docked next to the first Botel I stayed in, which had far fewer amenities but far more character,” explained Victor, clearly scanning the crowd for someone.

“So why aren’t we there?”

“Sadly, that botel burned down in a tremendous fire, and so for better or for worse, we’re left with the Amstel…god, they said they’d be here…”

“We meeting someone?”

“Yeah,” Victor said, just as two women at a table, one blonde, one brunette, waved them over. He waved back, and pulled Greg after him. “Come on!”

Greg recognized Frankie first, her dark hair pulled back into a flawless ponytail. She was less delicate by the light of day, and more androgynously dressed. Greg could very nearly see the boy she’d never been, as she stood to kiss him, Dutch-style – three pecks to the cheeks, one to each side and then one for good measure. It reminded him of the Amsterdam coat of arms that could be found on every souvenir sold in the City: a shield with three vertical Xs propped up by two lions, underneath a crown. Three Xs, three kisses. That’s Amsterdam.

He turned to the other woman at the table, the blonde, and nodded, politely. Frankie’s girlfriend, maybe? Victor would introduce them.

The woman laughed, and at the sound of her voice, Greg realized his mistake.

“Does the color of my hair really make that much of a difference, Greg?”

It was Betje, her raven blunt-cut hairstyle now replaced by a mass of blonde curls, soft tendrils that framed her face.

“I-I’m sorry, Meeste—“

She cut him off, her hand gently lifted. “Betje. Here I am Betje. Understood? We are here to have dinner, as friends.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, Road Rash” Victor said, “Bet called the house this morning, when you were still asleep. Thought dinner might be fun.”

Greg nodded, but couldn’t keep his eyes off how different she looked. “You’re…lovely.”

“Don’t say that too loudly, Greg, or she won’t be able to justify the impossibly expensive wigs she wears.” Victor teased.

Betje ran her hand through her hair and smiled. “As if I could stop. Tell him, Greg. My subs expect a certain degree of…severity that my actual hair contradicts.”

“I don’t know,” Greg said shyly. “The contradiction is kind of interesting.”

They ordered drinks.

Throughout the course of the night, they ate far too much and drank more, with Greg learning more about both Victor and Betje, the two telling hilarious, but increasingly incriminating stories about each other. Frankie lit a joint at some point, and they all looked out onto the river.

“What’s the deal with that boat?” Greg asked, jutting his chin towards a boat that had spent the duration of their meal moving from one side of the river to the other, back and forth, all night long.

“It’s the ferry,” Frankie said. “People work in the city and live over there, in Amsterdam North. It runs all night.”

“Short trip, what, ten minutes each way?”

“God, can you imagine what it would be like to drive that thing? To do that for a living?” Betje groaned. “Every ten minutes, one trip after the other…”

“I dunno,” Frankie laughed. “Make it every 15 minutes and I can totally imagine it.”

Betje clapped her hands in amusement. “Bitch, if only I had clients lined up like that!”

It was a pleasant meal, but Greg was nearly overcome by how surreal the whole situation was. Literally hours earlier, these people had been strangers doing incredibly filthy things with him, to him, and now it was like they were all pretending that never happened, himself included. It was as if this…lifestyle, whatever…could only exist in extremes – either extremely public, like the grotesque couple in the fetish shop, or extremely private, like this. It said a lot that _prostitution_ was easier spoken about in public than BDSM was, at least in Amsterdam.

“You okay?” Victor reached out his hand.

“Yeah. Great.” Greg said, working his hand out from under Victor’s on the pretense of lighting a cigarette.

Victor frowned then, but let the moment pass when Betje pulled an ancient Polaroid camera out of her purse and began snapping pictures. “Say cheese!” she demanded, and they complied, returning the favor, taking pictures of her and Frankie, feeling like tourists out of the 1970s.

Betje fanned herself with the photos, speeding up the developing process. “Ooh, that’s a good one,” she pointed at one of the pics of Victor and Greg. “Sexy. You keep it,” She said, pressing it into Victor’s palm.

At some point, the topic of conversation turned to Victor’s meeting with Xan. “It was good, we’d lost touch since I’d last visited, so I’m glad we stopped in,” he said, passing a joint to Betje. “Makes me worry how many other clients I’m missing by not being in London right now.”

She shrugged, tapping ash off the end. “You’ve got an answering machine, right? Call it.”

“Cellphone’s dead.”

“What about at D’s house?”

Victor slid his eyes to Greg. “I… already owe D so much for letting us hang at the house, I don’t want to add international phone charges to it.”

“Go to the post office, then,” Frankie piped in.

Greg furrowed his brow. “To, what, send a letter?”

“No, darling,” Frankie said, her tone set on patient. “At the post office, there is a bank of phones you can use to place international calls. Totally old school – you have to write the number you want to call on a piece of paper and hand it to this lady behind the desk and she puts the call through.” She turned to Betje, “I still call home that way, every other Sunday. Pass out my cards while I’m there, too – I mean, why not? It’s brimming with horny college students!”

On the opposite side of the table, Greg’s brain was buzzing. Of course! A call to his answering machine at home would reveal how deep the investigation had gone, and he could do it without having to talk with his roommates. Paul and Nick did _not_ need to get pulled into his drama. Plus, while calling from a public phone system would let the authorities in on the fact that he was calling from Amsterdam, they wouldn’t know from where in Amsterdam. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

After dinner, they said goodbye to the girls, and they were barely out of earshot before Greg began talking about the phones.

“You can call your friend and I can call my machine and we can see how badly we’re fucked.”

Victor sighed. “We broke out of jail and fled the country, Greg. I think we’re pretty well fucked. Let’s just leave it.”

“ _Leave_ it? We’re both just going to leave everything behind on the _presumption_ of a manhunt?” Greg shook his head, mouth gaping.

“Yes, but,” Victor said, flustered and annoyed. “I mean, I’m sure if anything unexpected happened, my friend would have contacted us on D’s phone.”

Greg stood his ground. “Look, you do what you want, but I’m making a call. Now tell me how to get to the post office.”

And so Victor did, chewing his lip the whole way there.

 

****

**9:57pm**

The Post Office, it turned out, was one of the monolithic buildings at the south end of Dam Square, cattycorner to the Royal Palace. They parked the bike outside, and went inside.

The whole phone set-up was just as Frankie had said, and it felt like something from a time gone by, from when telephone operators connected calls with those little cables. Greg grabbed a call request form from the stack of blanks and offered one to Victor. “You sure you don’t want to call?”

He took the form, begrudgingly.

Greg filled his out, eagerly, hungry for knowledge of what had been happening in London for the last 48 hours. He anticipated calls of inquiry from the police, numerous angry calls from his father, maybe an irritated call from his boss, assuming the authorities would have contacted him. After filling out the number, he handed the paper to the nice lady behind the desk and paid her for the call. She sent him to phone #8 and he braced himself for the onslaught.

Victor followed, watching him anxiously. He handed the lady the paper with Sherlock’s number, and asked for a phone that had a clear view of the goings-on in #8.

The phone rang, and Victor picked it up. “Go away, Sherlock.”

“You called me!”

“I know. Had to. Go away, I’ll call you later.”

“Fine, fuck off then.”

He sat the receiver in its cradle and resumed watching the line of Greg’s back. It stiffened, he was holding his breath, Victor could tell, and then…and then…it relaxed. After a few minutes, he turned and looked at Victor, with just the hint of a smile, an eagerness, a _happiness_ , even, before…before he turned away and began to run his finger along the edge of the phone booth, suddenly tense.

He slammed the phone down hard enough to startle the lady at the desk.

Moments later, he brushed past Victor’s phone booth. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Victor caught him by the collar of his jacket. “What’s wrong?”

“Not here.” Greg said, his voice clearly upset. “Let me go.”

Victor followed him out onto the street, to the place where they’d parked the bike. “What happened?”

“I fucking hate this place.” Greg fumed.

“Greg - settle down, what…what exactly did you find out?” Victor asked.

The biker ran a hand through his hair. “There was an automated call from the police, they actually left a number, said to call them back. Idiots – like a fugitive is going to return their call! Nothing from my father, which is surprising, so I’m guessing he’s not speaking to me.”

“Okay, well, could be worse,” Victor said, breathing a little easier. “So what are you so upset about?”

Greg looked at him with this…heartbroken look that just about destroyed Victor. “Emma.”

“Emma ‘be more careful with my things’ Emma? Emma from the restaurant?”

Greg nodded, barely disguising a sniffle as he did. “Yeah,” he said, with a sad smile. “She finally fucking called.”

“Well, that’s,” Victor stared, open-mouthed. “That’s good, right?”

Greg shook his head bitterly. “No, it’s fucking awful. Don’t you get it, man,? I fucking missed my chance.”

“Your chance with…Emma.” Victor clarified. All things considered, Greg’s complete disregard of Victor’s feelings shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

But Greg didn’t register Victor’s feelings, lost in the explanation. “She called and invited me to a party, a party that happened last night, a party I missed, a phone call I missed because I was stuck in the middle of fucking _Holland_.”

Victor lifted his chin and shoved his hands in his pockets. “With me.”

“Exactly,” Greg said. “This whole situation, this whole thing – breaking out of jail, going on the run, all of it, all of it – it was stupid and impulsive and, and…”

“Entirely my fault.” Victor said, quietly, finishing his sentence.

“I wasn’t saying that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“But I wasn’t saying it!” Greg kicked the side of the building, angry. “Shit. We’re both stuck here, you get that, right? Stuck with this weird, fucked up imitation of our lives. I mean, you can set up a lab here, I can get a job in a garage, but it’s all fucking fake. I miss my life, my _actual_ life, Victor!”

“Your shitty life in Finsbury Park?” The American said, bitterly. “I mean, let’s not rose-color your actual life, Greg. You haven’t lost much.”

“I’ve lost my chance at _her_!”

Victor leaned against the side of the post office building, and scrubbed his hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Okay, alright. There it is. I was wondering how long it would take, after what happened at the racetrack.”

“The racetrack?” Greg paused, bewildered. “What? What are you talking about?”

Victor reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette. “You said you lost your chance at   _her_ , emphasis on _her_. I get it. Only a matter of time before the redneck fucks at the bar got to you. This is not about missing Emma’s call, it’s about having second thoughts about fucking a man.”

Greg bristled. “No, Jesus Christ, you…you’re reading this all wrong.”

“No, I think I’m reading it exactly the right way, Greg.” Victor said, his voice flat.

Greg hesitated to respond, and that hesitation told Victor everything he needed to know. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed D’s house key to Greg. “Leave the door unlocked, okay? You know how to get to the house from here?”

The other man nodded. “But, where are you going?”

“I got something to do, Road Rash,” Victor said tightly. “I’ll be home soon.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst hurts to write, angst hurts to read.  
> At this point, I don’t know who I feel worse for. 
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- [Speed Limits in Holland](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Speed_limits_in_the_Netherlands) (yes, Greg should've gotten a ticket!) 
> 
> \- [Circuit Park Zandvoort](http://www.motorsportlifestyle.nl/track_zandvoort.php). Greg needs to come back for [Motor Days](http://www.cpz.nl/en/drive-yourself/motoren?lang=EN)! 
> 
> \- [Mickey’s Bar is a real place](http://cms.autosport.nl/images/stories/2013/Nationaal/Swift%20Cup/Talentenjacht/Finale/fsct_finale_mickeys.jpg), but none of the patrons are like the ones depicted in this fic!
> 
> \- Everything I know about Dutch Auto Racing I learned from [this page](http://www.dtm.com/en/news/quotes-audi-drivers-after-race-zandvoort-2014-09-28.html?language=en-gb).
> 
> \- The fetish shop was based on [this one](http://www.misterb.com/en/amsterdam). The "Alfred" in the story has no relation to the Alfred who actually works at this shop, and who seems like a lot of fun from his picture. 
> 
> \- The [IJ River Ferries](http://www.amsterdamtips.com/tips/amsterdam-ferry-services.php)
> 
> \- [Amsterdam’s Central Post Office is now a mall](http://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g188590-d189381-i61885719-Dam_Square-Amsterdam_North_Holland_Province.html)
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting -- see you in two weeks, loveys!
> 
>  <3  
>  vex.


	20. 2:22am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys cool their jets in the aftermath of the Post Office phonecall...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you, readers!
> 
> French is spoken in this chapter, and this time, the fabulous [Some-Cool-Name](http://some-cool-name.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and AO3 responded to my Batsignal! (If that name sounds familiar, you might remember, SCN delivered some kickass artwork for "Rabbit" a while back, and if you're curious, you can see /that/ posted on the front page of "The Rabbit Revealed"!)
> 
> At any rate, SCN was amazing, helping me sort out French phrases, and created a fantastic list of French pet names that were so helpful (in the beginning, that character was only going to have one pet name for Victor, but with SCN's list at my fingertips, well, I sort of couldn't control myself and I ended up using a bunch)! So, swing by her page and give her lots of love! <3
> 
> And if you're curious about what those French phrases really meant, at the end of the fic, you'll find translations of the French lines. Thanks for tuning in!

_[A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up.](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/maewest382446.html) _

Mae West

**Monday, October 20, 1997**

**2:22am**

It was the middle of the night, by the time Victor arrived at the Rue de la Renaissance address, grocery bag in hand.

D stared at him for a long moment in the doorway, cigarette in her perfectly manicured hand, assessing his sorry state. She shook her head, slowly, with a smile. 

 **“** _Dépêche-toi, gamin_ ,” she said, with a meaningful tilt of her head. “The dough’s ready.” She turned and walked away from him, towards the kitchen.

 Dutifully, he followed. 

In the kitchen, they each put on an apron and worked nearly wordlessly, a familiar recipe for all-to-familiar heartaches. He was tasked with rolling out the chilled dough, flouring and stretching it into the required 26”x18” rectangle. It was a job that required patience, working dough that had already been rolled out and turned three times – which meant, he realized, that she’d been working on this since dinner, long before he’d called her from Holland. Perhaps, it wasn’t just his heartache they were sorting out… 

He flickered his eyes over to her, knowing before he even asked that she wouldn’t answer. “How is Del?”  

“Sshhh,” D said quietly, pausing as she repositioned the large block of chocolate beneath her knife. “Keep rolling.” 

He did as he was told, without another word. There was a great deal of freedom in not being permitted to speak.  

( _Must remember that_ , he thought, tucking it away, even in his current state.) 

The lighting was warm in the kitchen, ample to work by, but kind to the eyes, and paired with the soothing sound of D’s knife against the cutting board, Victor felt himself relax into the repetitive movement. By the time the dough was ready to cut, D had already laid out the gleaming baking sheets. Victor sliced the dough into 4-inch wide strips with a pizza cutter while D looked on, pleased that he hadn’t needed any prompting. She turned to retrieve the butter from the refrigerator, and reflexively, Victor reached up for the vintage copper butter warmer in the rack above the island. Of course it was stamped Dehillerin - D was notoriously fussy about working with quality equipment, whether in the kitchen or the bedroom - so Dehillerin it had to be.  

She took the copper from his hand and placed a small knob of butter in it, clicking the dial on the gas range until the flame burned blue. With an expert flick of the wrist, she swirled the pan over the flame, keeping it moving to prevent the butter from burning. Victor placed piles of freshly cut chocolate at the top of each strip of dough, and one by one, he rolled each strip down, loosely, over the chocolate, until they resembled a series of a short, fat cigars, chocolate peeking out from each end. With the butter melted, D dipped a pastry brush into it and lightly greased the bottom of each baking sheet. Together, she and Victor filled each sheet with the pastry rolls, placing them two inches apart.  

With a satisfied sigh, she stepped back, and covered each sheet with a clean kitchen cloth. Victor placed the sheets on top of the stove to rise. 

“Two hours,” she said, and taking off her apron, she reached for the bottle of wine in the grocery bag that Victor had brought. “Go get the glasses, _mon chou_ …”   

 

*****  

 

 **2:22am**  

Greg was drunk. Again. 

He hadn’t intended on drinking. What he’d wanted to do was ride his bike until his anger and frustration had settled, but he couldn’t do that, now could he? He didn’t know his way around Amsterdam, and now that Victor had fucked off, he couldn’t stray too far from the Dam if he ever wanted to find his way back to the canal house. Not that he wanted to go there now. The very last thing he wanted to do was wander around a stranger’s house like some sad git, waiting for his bloody boyfriend to return after a domestic. 

 _Boyfriend._ Greg thought, grimly. _How the hell had that even happened?_  

Not that Victor was his boyfriend – oh, no, Victor had been very careful to keep whatever they were to “whatever they were” status, and there they’d stayed. Not that Greg had minded.  

A little before eleven, Greg had found his way into a brown cafe, an old-fashioned Dutch drinking bar, full of old Dutch men with manly Dutch names, men who were far more likely to murder their drinking partners than they were to suck them off. Men who understood English, but preferred Dutch, men who drank _genever_ and lager in those dainty fucking Dutch beer glasses.  

Different, but not so different. Foreign, but familiar. Greg missed home.  

He gripped the edge of the bartop, grounding himself, as if homesickness could be cured like seasickness – just keep your eyes on the horizon and wait for your brain to catch up. Just hang onto this bartop, this here and now, this reality and eventually everything will make sense. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift in the sea of words around him, words he didn’t understand and would never understand, just as it had been at Betje’s: pleasant, comforting, numbing… 

That’s when he felt a steady hand on his shoulder. 

 

*****   

 

 **3:08am**  

“Will your neighbors mind?” Victor asked, settling into a patio chair out in D’s garden. He pulled a pouch of tobacco – D’s pouch of tobacco, actually – out of his jacket pocket.  

“Are you asking about the cigarettes, or the noise?” D asked, accepting one of the cigarettes he’d rolled methodically on the train, and then waved her arms, dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. They’re old and deaf for the most part. We won’t wake them up.” 

Their chairs looked out onto a well-appointed garden, lush in the moonlight. If you had to be miserable, Victor figured, it was a pretty fantastic place to be miserable in. 

D sipped at her champagne and she cut him a shrewd glance. “Duty Free’s best?” she asked, with no small amount of sarcasm. 

“It was the middle of the night. In a bloody train station!” Victor said, defending his purchase. “Count your blessings: it could have been prosecco.”  

“Bite your tongue, you philistine! We are in _Paris_!” She gestured broadly to the world around her and spoke in a haughty tone, the twinkle in her eye his only cue that she was taking the piss. “Now,” she said, crossing her legs, “Shall we discuss your current _enchevêtrement_?"

Victor didn’t know what that word meant, but he appreciated D’s current fetish for the French language. He was pretty sure she wasn’t French – or Dutch or even English for that matter, although she maintained homes in all three countries. Sometimes, he thought he could hear a trace of an American accent, but other times, he was convinced she was Scandinavian or even German. She had the accent of a woman who’d spent decades moving through Europe, taking on the inflection and culture of wherever she happened to be at the moment. To be honest, Victor wasn’t even sure D would know her true country of origin without first looking at her passport. She was a chameleon, a mélange of all the places she’d been and the things she’s done in her 52 years on this planet. And she was nothing if not a fantastic, grand mystery. 

Case in point: she and Victor had been friends for years, but he’d never known her real name. In their circles, she was known only as “Dame”, and she was a dame, in all senses of the word:  confident, regal, demanding, gorgeous and dramatic to a fucking fault. She would readily admit that she was born twenty years too late - which was lucky for the likes of Joan Crawford and Greta Garbo, because D would have easily eclipsed them: a lavish blonde with a sharp tongue, gifted with a body that wouldn’t quit, even as she aged. She was opinionated, passionate and strong, the kind of woman who would scare the shit out of most men, which was perhaps why she preferred women. All things considered, it wasn’t surprising that Dame was the undisputed monarch and matriarch Domme of the Amsterdam scene, and had been for nearly thirty years.  

Victor nodded, and explained the situation with Greg to D, feeling not unlike a schoolboy called to the carpet. She listened, and refilled their glasses until the bottle was emptied. There was a pause in the narrative when she went to fetch another bottle, this time from her stores.  

“So where is he now, this boy?” She asked, pulling the foil off the second bottle.  

Victor reached his hands out “Give me that, D, you’ll break a nail.” 

“I’m not a delicate flower, Victor, let them all break,” she said crossly. “You’re trying to avoid the question.” 

“I’m _trying_ to be helpful,” he said, and eased the bottle out of her hand. He stood at the edge of the garden, popping the cork the way she’d shown him, years ago, with as little noise, fanfare and spillage as possible. “He’s…fine. He’s safe.” With his back still facing her, though, he admitted, “He’s at your house, in Holland, waiting for me to come back.” 

“So, you left this sketchy biker in my home, all by himself?” D asked, her countenance not nearly as bothered as her words seemed to indicate. She clucked her tongue. “You are chaos personified, Victor Trevor.” 

Victor smiled, his first real smile since the fight with Greg. “Well, thank you, Dame. I will take that as a compliment.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to take it any other way,” D said, returning his smile. “Alright: let’s sort this out before your little hooligan takes off with all of my good silver." 

 

***** 

 

 **3:08am**  

“Staying out of the canals?” 

That’s what the man had said, right after Greg felt the brush of a hand on his shoulder. Once he’d realized who the hand belonged to, he was grateful that he hadn’t responded with his usual knee-jerk punch: it was the police officer who’d shown “Callahan and McClane” out of the police station. 

“Um, yeah – wow, Officer…?” 

“…Venner. Thought I recognized you.” the other man said, with a friendly air. “But I’m off duty, so just call me Jan.” He held out his hand to shake, and Greg complied, still wary. He wasn’t high anymore, but he still remained a fugitive. Could Jan Venner have figured it out? 

He sat down on the stool beside Greg and ordered a beer, exchanging pleasantries with the bartender in Dutch before looking at Greg. “So where’s Callahan tonight?” 

“I-I’m not sure.” He said, cautiously. “We had a bit of a dust-up earlier. It’s nothing, it’ll blow over by morning.” 

“Nothing like travel to set emotions on edge, yeah?” The officer sipped his lager. “You know, the first trip I went on with my wife-to-be was an utter disaster. We nearly killed one another. I thought the engagement was doomed.” 

“Clearly it wasn’t, though?” Greg asked, because it didn’t hurt to be friendly. 

The other man held up his left hand, ring finger adorned. “Clearly it wasn’t,” he said, with a somewhat cheeky smile. “You’ll sort things out, too.” 

“Friends.” Greg said, perhaps a little too quickly, trying not to think about the feel of Victor’s lips against his neck, his voice low in his ear, his fingers pulling him wide…“Callahan and I are just friends.” 

“Of course,” Venner said, squinting slightly in confusion. “It was a pretty fantastic stunt you two pulled yesterday, you know, as civilians? Chasing that guy around town? Boys at the station are still talking about it.” 

Greg felt an unexpected rush of pride. “Felt pretty fantastic too,” he admitted, and ordered another beer, eyeing the _politie_ beside him. Venner was tall, and had the decisive air of an authority figure -- but he was also friendly, youngish and lacked the aggressive swagger that was ingrained in every policeman Greg had ever known, policemen like his father. In the station, Venner had demonstrated patience, and even humor, but he hadn’t lost an ounce of authority in doing so. It was interesting, almost like he was seeing some new breed of copper, and Greg wondered what exactly his father might think of Jan Venner.  

 

*****   

 

 **4:12am**  

D always said that baking was an exercise in problem-solving – meditation without mantras, physical exercise without a gym, a way to remember that sometimes, you need to focus on the individual steps of a process, rather than be overwhelmed by attempting to complete the whole thing at once. Baking, D would say, was the closest thing she got to actual prayer, except with baking, you’re 100% guaranteed that by the time you’re done, you’ll have something to show for your efforts – even if something goes horribly wrong, at the very least, the dogs will be fed.  

Baking was an act of devotion, on more than one level. 

D slid the last of the baking sheets into the oven and shut the door. In the last two hours, the pastries had risen to three times their original size, and Victor’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. 

As they stared at the pastries through the oven door, D turned and looked up at him, fondly. She flattened her hand across his chest, straightening his shirt and frowning as she plucked a piece of lint from his shoulder. “Where do you find these horrible shirts, Victor? No wonder you have relationship issues. You forget, I lived through the 1970s, my love, no one should have to live through it again!” 

Victor rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, we can’t all have your class, Dame.”  

“One day soon, you will come to visit and let me dress you properly.”  

She fussed over him like a mother, sometimes. Victor couldn’t say he hated it, but he pretended to, as a matter of habit. “Now you’re starting to sound like Sherlock,” he grumbled. 

“Ah!” D clapped her hands, happily. “ _Comment va mon adorable petit lapin ?_ ” If D played the part of Victor’s mother sometimes, she also sometimes served as Sherlock’s doting grandmamma, the genius child who could do no wrong.  

“He’s fine,” Victor assured her. “Working his way through all the subs in London. And before you ask, no, he’s still not wearing lingerie.” 

D had no lasting interest in men, but she did have a long-standing desire to see Sherlock in women’s lingerie. Something about his build, the kant of his hips, the curve of his neck, she claimed, “simply called for it”. Perhaps that previous statement should be amended to _pervy_ grandmamma.  

She leaned back against the countertop. “This hooligan. Do you love him?” 

“Goddamn, D,” Victor scratched at the back of his neck, his eyes squinting. “I…think that’s… premature. I’ve only known him for three days.” 

“I knew Del for three minutes and knew I loved her. Men are so foolish.” She said with a shrug, and tilted her head. “But you like him?” 

“Of course,” Victor explained. “And, I was his first. So I feel…responsible.” 

She jutted her chin towards the leather jacket hanging from the hook by the door. “That jacket, it’s his, is it?” 

“Yeah,” Victor smiled, embarrassed, a little. Wearing someone else’s clothing was visual proof of a very vanilla sort of intimacy. He’d have rather she noticed crop marks or love bites than this. Next she’d be asking if they were going “steady”. “He…thought I’d be cold on the bike.” 

She considered his words, and sighed deeply. “That poor boy,” she said, and picked up one of his cigarettes from the kitchen table, bringing it close to her lips. She waited, patiently, an overt test of Victor’s social graces. Victor, well-versed in D’s expectations, acted quickly, reaching into his pocket for his lighter an stepping forward, holding the flame out for her. She leaned in, smoke rising between them, and whether it was her intention to remind him of those cigarette kisses he’d shared with Greg or not, the act succeeded in making him feel guilty as fuck. 

“ _T'as foutu le bordel_ , Victor,” she said, quietly, and then, to make sure he got the message, she repeated the phrase again, in English, “You’ve made _quite_ a mess of things.” 

Victor nodded. “I – I know I have. I’m an asshole.” 

“Oui, my darling _Rimbaud,_ you certainly are. But,” she gave him a tight, sad smile, and then delivered a meaningful slap to his cheek. “ _Mon petit fouteur de merde_ , for this, you know an apology isn’t enough. Even if he does steal my silver.”

 Victor’s cheek stung, but he knew he’d earned that and then some. He stepped back, “Of course, D. I’ll make it right.”

 She nodded, sharply. “You’d better.”

 

***** 

 

 **4:12am**  

Greg left the bike at the bar, at Venner’s insistence. They’d spent the last hour talking about law enforcement and drinking too much _genever_ , which, it turned out, Greg didn’t find to be half bad.  

When the bar closed, Venner walked Greg home, making sure he found his way to the right bridge on the right canal.  

“You’ve got your key?”  

Greg nodded, and held it up. Venner took it, being the slightly less-drunk of the two, and bent down to work the key into the lock. As he did, he brushed his fingers along a few rough scratches in the metal. “Was there a break-in here, recently? Looks like someone tried to open this door with a bump key?”  

Venner couldn’t understand why Greg found that to be so incredibly funny.  

They said goodbye at the door, with Venner pressing his card into Greg’s hand. “It’s not a bad life, Greg.” 

Greg smiled. “Yeah, man, something to think about. You lot are different than they were – are – in London.” 

“Well, we’d have to be, right?” Venner said, with a grin, and jerked his head towards the canal house lobby. “So. Go inside. Sleep it off, ‘Mr. McClane.’” 

“That’s _Detective_ , Jan,” Greg corrected, and Venner couldn’t help but smile. 

“You know,” he said, with a wink, “I sincerely hope it will be, one day.” 

Ten minutes later, Greg made it up the stairs to find an empty house, and an empty bedroom. He fell face-first into the mattress and sighed, feeling guilty, feeling selfish and jealous. As he drifted off, alone in the dark, Greg let himself wonder where Victor might have gone, and consider what he might do when Victor came home – and perhaps more importantly, what he might do if he didn’t.

 

***** 

 

 **5:45am**  

The kitchen smelled like heaven, butter and chocolate filling the house, and really, how could anyone have a bad day when it starts off smelling this sweet.

“They’ve cooled,  _chéri_ darling,” D said, and as she began packaging up the pastries for him to take home, Victor helped himself to one, emitting a frankly obscene moan at the first taste of butter and meting chocolate on his tongue. 

“Oh my god, D, Christ,” he groaned, losing himself in the taste of pain au chocolat, fresh from the oven. “How is this even legal?” 

“Considering you played an integral part in its preparation, I can’t be entirely certain it _is_ legal, _mon petit diablotin_.” She smiled, and put together a second package. “This one is for Sherlock. Put it in the freezer when you back to Amsterdam.” 

“You spoil him.” 

“Don’t be jealous, darling,” She purred. “ _He_ doesn’t start international incidents just because his cock happens to get hard, now does he?” 

Victor paused, if only for a moment, and then gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You know, actual mommies don’t use that kind of language.” 

“Actual mommies would kick your ass for the way you’ve behaved.” She said, perhaps a little harsher than necessary. 

He stood up, slowly, and he turned, eyeing her deliberately as he sucked the chocolate off his thumbs, taking his time. “You know, we all draw outside the lines, now and again, Dame. I know you have, on occasion.” 

She watched him, and allowed a small smile to spread over her features. “You _sale garçon_ …if you want to play, we can play, Victor. But not right now. Right now you have work to do. _Tu dois réparer tes conneries et fais ça bien._ _”_

She handed him his jacket, and the two bundles of pastries, and kissed him on the cheek. “Go home. Save my silver. And I want a phone call once you’ve set things right.” 

Victor groaned. “Good god, now you really sound like my mother. Just don’t tell me to eat my vegetables or things could take a strange turn, D…” 

She shook her head with a laugh and opened the door. “ _Grouille-toi, p'tit con_ , go on, you’ll miss your train.”

 

*****

 

 **9:18am**  

Greg’s bike wasn’t there. 

That’s what Victor noticed first: the absence of Road Rash’s bike from the front of the house, and it sent Victor spinning. Maybe he’d gone home with someone, maybe he’d just woken up early, or maybe he’d finally had enough and had returned back to England to be officially claimed by Emma.  

None of these options were good. 

He tested the doorknob found it unlocked. If Greg had come and gone, Victor would certainly have a few things to say to him about responsibility.  

The American detoured into the kitchen, depositing one of the pastry bundles into the freezer, as directed. Fucking _mon lapin_ , my ass…and that’s when he heard it. A creak on the floorboard at the top of the stairs.  

He turned to find a sleepy-eyed Greg, wearing nothing but pants and his leather jacket, hair askew, looking as well-fucked as boy could look. Forgetting everything that had transpired in the last twelve hours, Victor jumped to conclusions, and things went from zero to sixty in absolutely no time at all.  

“You’re back,” Greg said, in a sulky tone that made Victor want to do very bad things, indeed. 

“Would you rather I weren’t?” Victor snapped, looking up the stairs. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“Fuck you, Victor, I’m not the one who stayed out all night.” 

“Why do you even care?” Victor shook his head, and stormed the stairs, “Christ, if you had any idea…” 

“Oh, I have plenty ideas about how you spend your nights.” Greg said, bowing up.  

“Careful, Greg,” Victor went dangerously still, “You do not want to push me right now.” 

“Don’t push you?” Greg sidled closer, angry, and with two hands, he shoved the other man backwards a few steps . “Oh, you want to fucking _go_ , Victor?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _First things first:_  
>  SO MANY THANKS to [somecoolname](http://some-cool-name.tumblr.com/) for her help with the French in this chapter - she was so kind to volunteer her help (and if you see any mistakes, know they’re on me, because I was so eager to post, I didn’t give her a last run-though to check on anything I might have added at the last minute. I promise to let her review once it's gone up)! Translations of each line are below, for those who want the full experience!
> 
>  _Second thing:_  
>  Yes, I realize I'm totally going to hell for ending this chapter there. ;-p
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***  
> \- [Meet D…](http://cdn.skim.gs/images/ahs-jessica-lange/jessica-lange-may-show-up-on-american-horror-story-again) (because really, who else could possibly play her?)
> 
> \- [E. Dehillerin](http://www.e-dehillerin.fr/) in Paris. The vintage copper butter warmer D used is found [here](http://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/vintage-dehillerin-paris-copper-443559177)…
> 
> \- [This week in Victor's Horrible Shirts...](http://www.afunkyshoeandboot.com/Menstops/GoldSeqCirHMCcWS.jpg) (Someday I should make a collage of all of them, really.)
> 
> \- I just couldn’t resist putting a little [AtlinMerrick](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/59454653855/atlinmerrick-the-serendipity-of-the-dash-one) in Dame 
> 
> \- [Recipe for Pain au Chocolat](http://frenchfood.about.com/od/breadandpastry/r/painauchoc.htm) \- now we know why Sherlock loved it in "Rabbit"... 
> 
> So, I added another chapter. I had a feeling that would happen, depending on how this one went.  
> (For all I know, I might need to add another, but that would be it for sure, I promise!)
> 
> Thanks for your patience, and I'll see you in two weeks!
> 
> <3  
> vex.
> 
>  
> 
> FRENCH LINES TRANSLATED  
> (With much love to Some-Cool-Name!):
> 
>  _Dépêche-toi, gamin_ : Come on, boy...  
>  _Mon chou_ : My cupcake  
>  _Enchevêtrement_ : THIS ONE IS WRONG AND ITS MY BAD - to be replaced soon! :-)  
>  _Comment va mon adorable petit lapin ?_ : How is my darling little Rabbit?  
>  _T'as foutu le bordel, Victor_ : You've made quite a mess of things, Victor  
>  _Rimbaud_ : If I may quote SCN: "As you may know, Rimbaud was a french poet, bisexual, who had a terrible love affair with the other poet Verlaine. Rimbaud is not only known by his amazing poetry but also by his decline, because of the gay love affair with Verlaine, the alcohol, the drugs... But he was and forever will be the symbol of a free spirit and the personification of youth... at least in France."  
>  _Mon petit fouteur de merde_ : My little troublemaker (v. rude version)  
>  _chéri darling_ : Literally, "Darling, darling". Something a non-native French speaker would say.  
>  _Mon petit diablotin_ : My little devil  
>  _Sale garçon_ : Bad boy  
>  _Tu dois réparer tes conneries et fais ça bien_ You must repair the mess you made, and do it well  
>  _Grouille-toi, p'tit con_ Go on, jackass


	21. 9:23am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up with Victor and Greg – whether it's fighting or fucking, well, you’ll just have to read to find out…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squick Warning: There's some very brief foot fetishy stuff here, but it's over very quickly.
> 
> Also:
> 
> Trigger Warning: There's a discussion about limits, that includes a short list of some illegal/immoral/unsavoury sexual things (discussed in no real detail, but if you're triggery, be warned)

 

"In limits, there is freedom"

_[Julia Cameron](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julia_Cameron) _

**Monday, October 20, 1997**

**9:23am**

_“You want to fucking go, Victor?”_  

Victor’s pulse pounded in his ears, adrenaline flooded his body, and yes, all things considered, in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to fight or fuck this boy into the ground, to teach him a lesson one way or another, to smash or suck Greg’s sullen pout until his lips were red and swollen… 

…but damn if Dame’s words didn’t surface in his brain: _T'as foutu le bordel_ _, Victor_ _. Y_ _ou’ve made_ _quite_ _a mess of things,_ over and over and over and over until he gave in, until he let out a breath and held up his hands. 

“Let’s just, let’s just breathe for a second, okay?” Victor said, working his jaw, that tiny flare of muscle the only physical sign of the tension he felt inside. “Okay. Emotions are…high. Fair to say?” 

Greg paced away and pointed, accusatorily, at the American. “You left me.” 

“That’s…true,” Victor allowed. “But only because you were pretty fucking rude.” 

“I’ll cop to that.” Greg admitted, and sat down on the top step of the staircase, his back against the glass bricks. “But, in my defense, I had just gotten a shit phone call.” 

“Let’s not do this just yet, okay?” Victor asked, suddenly tired. He’d been running on pain au chocolat and train station coffee for the better part of the night, and lack of sleep was finally catching up with him. He propped himself up against the wall outside the bedroom. “Look: first things first - you should go tend to your hook-up. They probably locked themselves in the bathroom when you got all…shouty.” 

Greg ignored the “shouty” accusation and shook his head, incredulous, “Oh, for fuck’s sake – you really think there’s someone else here?” 

“What? Did they go out the window, then?” Victor asked, carefully, making a point of keeping the pronoun neutral. 

“You watch too much James Bond,” Greg accused. “There _was_ no hook-up, you git.” 

Victor narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you dressed like…that?” His eyes swept up Greg’s nearly naked form. 

Greg looked down at his admittedly absurd attire of nothing but pants and his leather jacket, with a shrug. “I, uh…I got…cold and I was too drunk to look for a blanket.” 

With a surge of relief, Victor barked out a laugh. “I suppose that’s one explanation,” he said, it not being all that much of a stretch to imagine an inebriated Greg just grabbing whatever was closest, no matter how ineffective it might be. “Then again, it’s not the only explanation, is it?“ Victor asked. 

“Shut up.” 

Victor continued, undeterred. “Because another explanation would be that you were jacking off and _chose_ to wear the coat because you like the feel of leather against your chest.” 

“Fuck off,” snarled Greg, his words too close to the truth. He crossed his arms. “No sexy shite when we’re talking.” 

“Then let’s stop talking.” 

“That’s mature.” 

“No, I mean it,” Victor said. “I mean, yes, we need to talk. That’s obvious. But,” he paused, eyes going sleepy, “It’s been a long night. I’m exhausted, and you are, too. So, I request a time out.” 

“A time out?” 

“A break in the action, a pause in the story, a temporary easing of tension.” Victor said. “Just to rest, maybe blow off a little steam?” 

Greg considered it. “For how long?” 

“For as long you wish,” Victor said. It was cheating, this postponement, he knew it, and were D here, she would’ve called him on it. But he was tired and the boy’s outfit, ludicrous as it was, certainly had an…appeal. And while he wasn’t even sure the Brit would have him again, the fact that he hadn’t moved to cover himself, well…Victor could only interpret that as a good sign.

Greg looked at him curiously. “Did you fuck anyone while you were gone?” 

“No,” Victor said, shaking his head. “I made pastry.” 

“You…what?” Greg frowned. “Is that some kind of euphemism?” 

“No, actual pastry. I’ll explain later. We’ll have a good breakfast when we wake up.” Victor pushed away from the wall. “Look, are we good, for the moment? You…okay with talking later?"

Greg nodded, looking serious. “Fine. No harm in waiting until we’re both in a good place.” 

Victor nodded back, and then they were both nodding, and it was all very reasonable, two grown men being very adult and quite above-board until Greg suddenly and unexpectedly crossed the landing, grabbed Victor’s cock through his jeans and led him firmly into the bedroom. 

 

***** 

 

 **9:27am**  

Long story short, Greg had been edging for hours. 

Long story short, Victor had been right about the leather. 

Long story short, while the man had thoroughly set him off with his talk of “interrupting something”, the thought that Victor could be jealous over him? That had set him off in an entirely different way… 

He pulled a confused looking Victor into the bedroom, peeling off his clothing until Victor caught on, stripping down to nothing before Greg picked up the motorcycle jacket from the floor and pressed it into Victor’s chest. 

“I knew it,” Victor smirked, and slipped it on over his bare skin, at the same moment Greg slipped out of his pants. As soon as he was able, Victor wrapped himself around Greg possessively, the two of them naked but for their jackets, and tumbled to the bed, both letting out needy little moans. Victor’s breath positively hitched at the feel of the leather against his skin, the chill of the metal buckles pressing between them and the bite of the zippers running jagged against delicate flesh. 

“Fuck,” huffed Greg, as Victor took hold of the bottom of Greg’s jacket, using the two ends to pull the other man close, tight to his body, and it felt like being captured, like being bound.  

“You sure you want this, Greg?” Victor said, saying “this” when he so obviously meant “me”. 

Greg nodded, as if mesmerized. “Fuck yes. Please,” his please nearly obscured by a second huff of breath as Victor slid his body up and over Greg’s, the sensation too, too much for the both of them.  

“Ridiculous,” Victor murmured into his ear, the crass clash of the buckles making music. “We’re not even high this time.” 

“Do it again,” Greg said softly, pleading, and Victor complied, pausing when their erections met, crashing, grinding into one another with keen desperation. It was that shared desire, that synchronous movement, their simultaneous realization that Greg was feeling what Victor was feeling what Greg was feeling that was thrilling.  Not to say that sex with a partner of the same sex was inherently better than with a partner of the opposite sex -- for either of them, honestly -- but this precise kind of physical alignment, same against same, could only exist between partners of the same sex.  

Victor watched Greg drift, and he grinned, sliding up to sit on the other man’s belly. He thumbed that mouth, those lips that he’d wanted to suck and smash, and kissed them delicately instead. He could taste the alcohol on his tongue – _genever_ , how continental -  and he wondered if Greg could taste the chocolate on his. He sat back on his heels, taking a moment to look at the man beneath him, drinking him in. Greg was beautiful now, but Victor imagined him to be the type of good-looking that would improve with age. A few extra pounds and a few well-earned lines would turn this pretty boy into an impossibly handsome man. He almost wished he could forward the clock, just to watch it happen. 

Victor felt a shift in the interior pocket of his coat, and he furrowed his brow for a moment before he remembered what it was.

“Greg,” he said, with a mischievous tone, “do me a favor?” 

Greg nodded, his voice rough. “Yeah. Wh-what?” 

Victor looked down at him. “Reach into my pocket?” 

“Why?” 

“Just,” Victor said, dangerously, bracing his hands against the headboard, and rolling his sack against Greg’s cock. “Do as you’re fucking told.” 

After a small gasp and a corresponding roll of his own hips, Greg did just that, reaching into Victor’s inner pocket and pulling out a small, grey plastic bag. He turned the package over in his hand, recognizing the black logo and looked up at Victor with amusement. “You’ve been carrying these around all night?” 

“Forgot I had them, honestly, until just this moment.” Victor leaned down, pulling the brand new handcuffs out of the bag, and whispered very distinctly:

“Hands over your head, love.” 

 

***** 

 

 **9:39am**  

Victor hadn’t been lying before, when he’d told Greg that D’s clothes weren’t exactly his style – and not just because she was a woman. 

She had, after all, come of age under the tutelage of the films of Grace Kelly, and the cultivating of a similar cool blonde veneer demanded the development of a certain fashion sense: crisp, clean, classic, _expensive_. She’d attended her first Fashion Weeks as soon as she was old enough to light her own cigarettes, and she’d watch with polite detachment at the often ludicrous designs that walked the runway. Of course he had her favorites: Chanel, Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, and Hermes.  

 _Hermes._  

Truth was, D was a complete and utter _slut_ over a good vintage Hermes scarf and Victor was all-too aware that the top right hand drawer of Dame’s favorite lingerie chest was full-to-bursting with countless lovely silk designer scarves. Scarves uniquely suited to any number of uses… 

After having Greg raise his hands, Victor removed two of the scarves from D’s stash, one with a red and green horse motif and a second one in black and gold. With the efficiency of someone who has clearly done this before, he knelt at Greg’s side and wrapped a silk scarf around each of his wrists, tying them tight enough to stay in place.  

“Do I really need all this?” Greg asked, bristling at the thought of being babied.  

“Depends on if you’re gonna struggle against the metal,” he said, pulling the police cuffs around Greg’s wrist, through the bed frame and back around to his other wrist. “And if I know you, you will.” 

Greg wasn’t comfortable, per se, but it wasn’t exactly painful, just awkward. He flexed his shoulder muscles and shifted on the bed, pulling experimentally at the cuffs. He remembered his demonstration at the shwarma shop, and realized there’d be no getting out of this with a piece of paper… 

Victor stared down at him, deliberately choosing not to grant Greg the pleasure of a blindfold. It wasn’t intended as a punishment (he didn’t think), he just wanted Greg to feel the weight and shame of being unabashedly observed. “You should see how you look,” he drawled, pulling the bound man’s legs to him, pulling them up onto his thighs, stroking them, scratching them absently. “You know, you shouldn’t be upset about Emma. You don’t even know if she’d be capable of taking care of you.” 

Greg shot him a dark look. “You don’t know that she wouldn’t.” 

“Yes, but that’s my point: neither do you.” Victor said. 

Greg’s lips tightened. “Let’s not talk about Emma.” 

“You’re right,” the other man agreed, amiably. “I’d rather talk about you.” Victor lifted Greg’s right foot level with his own face and licked the length of his arch. Greg yelped, not expecting that, and jerked his foot back, but Victor held onto it fast with his hands. “Sensitive.” 

“Ticklish.” Greg corrected. 

“Be wary of who you share that information with, Road Rash,” Victor said, biting each toe before taking each into his mouth. At the same time, his own bare foot had found Greg’s erection and pressed against it, kneading it, gripping the other man’s balls very delicately with his toes. “Some Doms will take advantage of careless admissions like that.” 

“I thought we weren’t talking about Emma.” 

“We aren’t.” Victor said, and lightly bit into Greg’s arch.  

This was something new for Greg. He’d never really thought of feet as something sensual, sexual – that was only for weirdo fetishists, right? But he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t pleasant. Once you got past the fact that your _foot_ was in someone else’s _mouth_ , it felt, well, decadent, and absurdly good. Greg licked his lips, and tentatively extended his own free foot to press between Victor’s legs, kneading him the way the other man was kneading him.  

At first contact, Victor murmured softly, “That’s…good, Greg,” and took the man’s foot in both hands, massaging it with force, thumbs pressing hard into the muscle.  

Greg let out a gutteral moan, and Victor marveled. “You’re a rare find, Road Rash. So responsive, all new and shiny. Open to anything. Reckless. Is there anything you don’t like?”  

Greg watched Victor talk, with a half-smile on his face. “I dunno, try me.” 

“I’m tempted,” Victor said, shifting his position abruptly, moving Greg’s foot to the bed and edging just out of Greg’s reach. He fished in the pockets of his jacket and removed one of the dozens of cigarettes he’d rolled on the train home. “But the problem is, you’re such a slut, Greg, you’d probably let me do anything I want, wouldn’t you?”

 “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Greg said with a laugh. “To give you control?” 

Victor shook his head, and pushed himself up so he was perched up on the footboard. “The dirty little secret of BDSM, Greg, is that the submissives run the show. You draw the lines, you state your limits and even after all that, if things still get too much, you safeword out. You’re always in control.” 

“I don’t want to be.” 

“Too fucking bad, them’s the rules, kid.” Victor said, and reached for an ashtray. “You can’t count on anyone else to take care of you.” 

“I can count on you,” Greg said. “You’ve pulled me back from the brink a few times this weekend.” 

“Yeah, I have,” Victor’s face softened. “But I won’t always be there, will I?” 

“You going somewhere?” Greg asked, concerned. 

Victor sighed. “I won’t _always_ be there. Nights at the dungeon, you’re naturally going to want to explore with other people. Girls, other guys maybe. I won’t always be right at your side, will I? I need to know you can get along without supervision.” 

“But I _like_ supervision,” Greg said, adding, “and I don’t want anyone else.” 

“Liar.” Victor said, his word harsh, but his expression kind. He stood up and walked down the length of the bed, one foot on either side of Greg, and for a moment, he just looked at the cuffed man, appraisingly, cigarette going to ash, slack in his mouth.  Christ, he was pretty like this. He placed his cigarette between Greg’s lips. “Hold this.”  

Reaching for a bottle of lube on the bedside table (yes, Greg had been a busy boy while he’d been off in Paris, hadn’t he?), Victor grabbed a condom and something else from the bedside drawer, placing them both into his pocket. He moved back to the bed, and knelt over the biker’s thighs. Taking his cigarette back, Victor allowed Greg one long, assisted drag before tapping it out into the ashtray. He then opened the bottle and tipped a generous amount of lube into his own hand.  

Greg watched eagerly, anticipating the other man’s moves. Victor would slip into a condom, slick up his own cock along with Greg’s hole, and Greg’s eyes shut thinking about what would happen then, thinking about the tight, hot pressure of Victor’s persistent cock, and Greg on his back, tethered and helpless beneath him. Eyes still closed, he waited for the first touch of lube – and while the touch did come, it didn’t exactly come from where he thought it would.

“Alright, you filthy thing,” Victor said, but his hand was slicking a generous amount of lube over _Greg’s_ cock this time, not his own. “Do I have your attention, Road Rash?” 

Greg opened his eyes, enjoying the feel of the other man stroking him, the strange sensation of the other man’s grasp and rhythm. “Yeah…yes. You keep doing that, you can have anything you want.” 

Victor groaned, disappointed, but kept stroking. “This is what I’m talking about, Greg. That’s not acceptable. You need limits.” 

“Limits?” Greg asked, his voice already gone breathy. The man had been edging, after all, and Victor knew it wouldn’t take much for him to tip over the edge…but not just yet.  

“Limits.” He said, and paused mid-stroke, tightening his grip. He pulled something from his coat pocket, then, and Greg realized what it was once Victor pulled off the cap with his teeth. Victor bent over the man and wrote the word “ _LIMITS:_ ” across Greg’s chest, just above his nipples with the Sharpie. 

“Is that a permanent marker?” Greg asked, nervously.  

“Hush.” Victor said, and sat back, resuming less vigorous stroking of Greg’s member. “Now, the best way to sort out limits is to start from the most definitive, obviously not-OK thing, to the least.” He lifted the pen, ready to write. “So: safe to assume that sex with kids and animals are out of the question?” 

Greg’s brows shot up. “What the fuck, Victor? Bloody hell, what kind of people do you hang out with?” 

“I’ll take that as agreement,” Victor said, approvingly, and wrote _Consenting Human Adult Partners Only_ underneath his nipples. Greg’s skin went to goosebumps at the feeling of the marker across his skin. “See, that wasn’t so hard. From here it will become progressively more challenging. For instance, what are your thoughts on scat?” 

“Like that jazz singing thing?” Greg’s asked, hopefully.

“No, not jazz singing.” Victor said, with a laugh.  

“Uh, no, then.” Greg shook his head, firmly. “There is _nothing_ sexy about shit, Victor. Seriously, this is something people need to be told?” 

“It’s not like people are going to shit on you without talking about it first, Greg,” Victor said, then reconsidered, “Well, _most_ people won’t. For the ones that might, well, that’s why it never hurts to communicate hard limits.”

“That’s a hard fucking limit for sure,” Greg said, and held his breath as Victor wrote _No Scat_ below the previous entry.  

“How about watersports?”  

“I’m assuming you’re _not_ talking about surfing?” 

Victor shook his head. “’Fraid not. But this one’s a lot more common than you think.” Victor amended the previous entry to read _No Scat, No Watersports._

For the next ten minutes, Victor and Greg collaborated on the rest of the list, with Victor explaining some concepts and stroking him at random intervals, to keep him engaged. _No Fisting_ joined the list, (a hard limit, at least for now), as did _No Breathplay,_ at Victor’s insistence. They spent ten minutes debating the pros and cons of knifeplay, fighting, wrestling and roughhousing, in general, eventually formulating two additional limits for the list: _No Permanent Damage_ and _Limited Blood_. Finally, Victor added _Nothing That Will Get Me Arrested_ , as a reminder for Greg to keep his play on the right side of the law. He rolled his eyes at first, but he laughed in the end, realizing it might not be such a bad idea to include.  By the time Victor had finished writing, Greg’s chest was full, and Victor leaned back to admire his handiwork.  

“You’ll amend this, of course,” Victor said, capping the marker and throwing it back onto the bedside table. “You’ll add to it, maybe subtract. But this will keep you alive and legal in the meantime.” 

“You’re a mad man. I love it.” Greg shifted so he could better read it. He’d relished the feeling of being indelibly marked, presumably for strangers to read, and even when Victor explained that permanent marker wasn’t actually permanent on human skin, he enjoyed the fantasy of being marked forever.  

Victor checked his hands, then, making him flex his wrists, confirming that there was no numbness. He still changed-up Greg’s position slightly, to give his shoulders a rest. 

As the other man busied himself with the cuffs, Greg relaxed, hoping this was just a preliminary to he and Victor finally get back to the business of getting off, but the other man just reapplied lube to Greg’s leaking cock. “Now that we’ve talked about what you won’t do,” Victor said, “Let’s talk about what you will.” 

Greg shrugged. “Everything else, right? I mean, unless I come up against something we haven’t considered.” 

Victor continued to stroke him. “You’re a bottom, right? With me like this, with girls who have toys. Ever top?” 

“I’m submissive,” Greg said with a frown, confused. Had he not been paying attention the last three days? 

“Yeah, and?” Victor said. “Doesn’t mean you can’t top. Sub and dom, top and bottom, they’re two different scales. Power bottoms, for instance are fairly common– Doms who like to be taken the way they want to be taken. Bossy little shits, honestly, but they exist. And their partners are submissive tops, or service tops to some, subs who do as their bossy little power bottom Dom tells them to.” 

Greg processed this, it requiring a different way of thinking than he was used to.  “I mean,” he said slowly, “I mean, it’s not like I don’t enjoy penetration. I mean, I really do. You know, with girls.”

“Only with girls?” Victor asked.  

Greg’s eyes slid to his, amused. “Why do you want to know?” 

Victor just leaned back, crossed his arms and shot him a winning smile.   

 

***** 

 

**Saturday, February 16, 1991**

**11:30pm**  

D hadn’t just been the first _woman_ Victor had bottomed for, she’d been the first _person_.  

“ _È egoista stronzetto_!” She’d said (back then, Italian had been her obsession), “You selfish little prick.” 

“I’m not selfish, I’m just not wired that way.” Victor had groused, checking his watch. They were going to be late. “Just relax, D.” 

That’s when Dame inhaled sharply, the room cooled in an instant. She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “I do not take orders, child.” 

Victor realized his mistake quickly, backpedaling. “I didn’t mean, you know I would never. D, I didn’t inten—“ 

“Your intentions don’t interest me in the slightest.” D said, removing a compact from her evening bag and checking her lipstick. “You’re young, but you’ve shown surprising maturity for your age, not to mention a good set of skills. I’ve welcomed you into my circle, in spite of your chosen profession.” 

Victor opened his mouth to reply, and then wisely, thought better. 

“But this? _Questo è deludente_ , this disappoints me.” She pressed the compact closed with a snap. “Victor, it’s not responsible to play at things you’ve never felt yourself.” 

Victor objected. “But I’m not a bottom!” 

Dame sniffed and plucked at the fingertips of her gloves, pulling them loose. “As if that matters. Besides, how would you know if you never tried it?”  

The American made a dismissive noise, and moved to the window that looked out onto the street, and saw the car idling outside. Inside, Dame was already pulling off her second glove, and he watched her with confusion. “Why are you taking your gloves off? We’re already late. Del is waiting downstairs!” 

She peeled her coat off, and laid it carefully on the chair. “I’m sure she’ll understand.” She turned her back on him, placed her hands on her hips and looked challengingly over her shoulder. “Zip?” 

They locked eyes. Neither of them said a word, but after more than a moment’s stalemate, Victor conceded, stepping forward to unzip her dress. “I suppose you’re not…wrong.” 

“I never am,” D said without a hint of modesty, and pecked him on the cheek, leaving a lipstick mark. “I’ll be gentle, _cucciolo_.” 

“You better. I _will_ safeword out, if I have to.” 

D stepped out of her dress. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Victor.”    

 

***** 

 

**Monday, October 20, 1997**

**10:31am**  

Victor gripped the headboard, looking into Greg’s eyes as he eased down, taking him inside, feeling himself stretch and give.  

Beneath him, Greg gasped, and murmured, “Jesus, Victor, that’s…” 

“Yeah,” Victor smiled, and kissed his eyelids, gently, one at a time. He rolled his hips, and let out a resonant moan, the raw drag against his insides indescribable, and he lost himself in it for a full minute before speaking again. “This is where I remind you that I’m still in charge, you filthy thing.” 

“You mean this is where you become a ‘Bossy Little Shit’?” Greg teased. 

“I’m always bossy, Road Rash.” Victor said, adding, “By the way, no cumming until I say so—“ 

“But, it’s been—“ Greg whined and lifted his hips, trying to get deeper, but Victor, with no small regret, pulled away just enough to deny him that extra inch. 

“I know,” Victor said. “But it’s not my problem that you edged half the night away.” He drifted even farther away then, just to make his point. 

Greg pitched forward as far as the cuffs would allow, his open mouth pressing against Victor chest, gaping and desperate. “Please?” 

“Such a polite slut,” Victor smiled, fully intending to tease the Brit slowly into madness – and he would have, if it weren’t for the fact that right then, Greg’s greedy cock happened to hit Victor’s prostate, purely by luck, and at just the right angle to make him reel. Victor shuddered and shifted his hips downward, moving one hand down to his own cock and the other to grip the hair on the back of Greg’s head, commanding “Oh, you little bitch, fuck, right there. Don’t you fucking move.” 

Greg did as he was told, holding his breath as Victor fucked himself on his cock, pulling hard on the headboard. Greg had never felt more like a toy, and it appealed to him on a very base level, being used for someone else’s orgasm while at the same time, being denied his own. The grasp and clench of Victor’s muscles was too cruel, though, impossible not to respond to, and he felt himself careening towards climax in spite of himself, out of control. His resolve to be good crumbled, and he was very nearly there when Victor realized what was happening and stopped moving entirely, squeezing Greg’s cock with an almost painful clench and releasing Greg’s hair long enough to deliver a single, controlled slap to the man’s face. “No,” he said, and pointed firmly, as one does to a dog, but Greg was too far gone to object. The clench had sent him wide-eyed, his careening effectively derailed, but the slap – just like Betje’s, but harder even, the shame of being slapped by a _man_ somehow pushing him into a further level of space. 

Victor watched these thoughts play out on Greg’s face, and with a satisfied nod, he resumed riding the other man’s cock as before, but this time, as he stroked himself he watched his own handprint blossom bright red on the biker’s dazed cheek. It was disturbing how arousing it was. Victor was inches away from cumming, and he huffed out a breath, telling himself to wait, wait, wait…until he couldn’t wait anymore, and it all happened at once. With a glorious groan, he spilled all over Greg’s chest and belly, partially obscuring the print they’d both worked so diligently to compose. 

Victor closed his eyes, panting, the release taking his breath away for a moment, and he held up a finger, letting the other man know he hadn’t forgotten him. When his head had cleared, he pulled off of Greg’s trembling, still-hard cock. “Good job, Road Rash. Your self-control deserves…deserves a reward,” he said, and reached into his pocket. He removed the key to the cuffs, and unlocked Greg’s hands, massaging his wrists.  

“I…can cum, then?” Greg asked, words still difficult.  

Victor grinned, and ran a hand over his face, pushing the sweat out of his eyes. “Do your worst, Road Rash.” 

Greg’s head was swimming. “Do you mean that…?” He let the sentence trail off, hoping Victor would finish it for him.  

“I _mean_ ,” Victor said, beckoning with two fingers, “Come and get me.” 

The words were barely out of Victor’s mouth before Greg had pushed him down and rolled him over, propping a down pillow underneath Victor’s hips. If the other man wanted Greg to top, he was going to top properly, in a position where he could control the pace…which didn’t seem right. 

“Is this…okay?” Greg asked, knowing what he wanted, but not knowing how it squared with the roles they were playing. 

Victor shot him a sated smile. “Baby, it’s all okay.” 

“No, I mean,” Greg admitted. “I want to do this, but it feels like I’m the Do—“  
  
Victor’s countenance changed then, and he raised up with an impatient growl, turning his head and snapping. “Goddammit, stop dicking around, Greg, and _fuck me_ , you useless slut. Don’t make me have to tell you again.”  

And just like that, everything fell into place for Greg.  

He did as he was told, and when he finally pressed himself hard into Victor’s hole, at his own pace and of his own volition, _fucking hell,_ he knew the edging had been more than worth it. He gripped the man’s hips with both hands, and Victor pressed back, tilting himself to meet Greg’s strokes, pressing them in deeper.  

“Christ,” Greg moaned, and watched his cock disappear into the other man, like it was some perverse magic trick, but he didn’t have time to think, he couldn’t think, the feeling was beyond thinking. 

Victor widened his knees. “Get closer, Greg, I want your cum deep, you filthy whore. Show me what you’re worth.” 

Greg dug in then, nudging forward, and bending over Victor’s body, he grabbed the footboard, mirroring what Victor had done, locking in, his torso taut against Victor’s back, his head resting against his shoulderblade and his cock buried deep, slicked and hard and impossibly tight. His hips jerked, small spasms, rocketing toward an end that had been more than ten hours in the making. Victor moaned, his cries partially muffled by the mattress, but Greg’s were loud, stifled only when he pressed his open mouth against Victor’s back, in something that was not quite a kiss, and just shy of a bite. 

“Cum for me, Greg,” Victor breathed, head turned, words clear.

“Oh, god,” 

“Greg: cum for me _now_.” 

“Now?” 

“Fucking NOW!” Victor said, and pressed back, clenching him tightly, milking the other man’s cock until Greg spasmed on top of him, pitching forward and crying out as he came, the tension of his self-imposed and then Victor-imposed denial releasing all at once, and it was, oh, so perfect. For a moment, all he could hear was his own heart beating. He was thoroughly and completely wrecked, and neither one of them moved for a while. 

Eventually, Greg pulled out and pulled the condom off. The leather was suddenly too close and too hot, so Victor took his off and helped Greg’s out of his as well. Greg cleaned them both off with a t-shirt he’d abandoned on the floor the night before (taking care not to smudge the Sharpie), and Victor rolled over onto his side, watching him.  

“You did great, Greg.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Knew that you would.” Victor held his hand out and pulled him back into bed, curling his body around him, big spoon. Men and women, top and bottom, bed was one of the few places where Victor Trevor was entirely inflexible: when it came to sleeping, he was always the big fucking spoon.  

Greg didn’t mind. 

“You good?” Victor asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it. 

“Mm-hmm,” Greg nodded, and pressed back against him. “Knackered.” 

“Then sleep.” Victor said, whispering into Greg’s ear. “Rest up, and when we wake up, and we’ll go out. I got something I want to show you.” 

“Bloody hell,” Greg said, his voice gone sleepy. “I knew you’d get around to those windmills eventually…” 

Victor laughed, soft and low. “No windmills - not yet, anyway. You’ll like it, I think.” He kissed the back of Greg’s neck. “Let’s get some rest. ‘Night, Road Rash.” 

Greg was asleep before he could wish Victor the same.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was oddly sweet sex, for me, don’t you think? Perhaps I’m getting soft in my old age…
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
> \- On [Hermes scarves](https://douglasrosindecorativearts.wordpress.com/2012/05/06/hermes-scarves/): I was halfway through writing this scene when I read that [Sharon Stone’s character uses Hermes scarves in one of the bondage scenes from “Basic Instinct”](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herm%C3%A8s) – which at first gave me pause, but later, really, basically confirmed to me that I was solidly on the right track, that D would, in fact, have a drawer full of them and use them in precisely the same way! 
> 
> \- On [knowing your limits](http://www.chicagonow.com/kinky-dominatrix/2012/11/kinky-bdsm-limits/).
> 
> \- Does D’s line _“…it’s not responsible to play at things you’ve never felt yourself”_ sound familiar? It should! Sherlock repeated this, word-for-word, in [Rabbit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/862734/chapters/1653919), in the initial restaurant scene where Sherlock explained his unique relationship with Victor to John!
> 
> \- Finally, I added the scene with D somewhat at the last minute, so didn't have my usual couple of days to look for a translator. If you speak Italian, and the Italian I've included is incorrect, please don't hesitate to drop me a line on my Tumblr, because Google Translate is extremely hit or miss. I'd really appreciate your help! :-)
> 
>  
> 
> So, of course this chapter went longer than I’d anticipated (I'm starting to sound like a broken record, I know), which means, you guessed it, I’ve added one more chapter to our final tally! So sorry, guys, the boys just keep surprising me with the turns their scenes take! 
> 
> At any rate, thanks for your patience with me - but let me ask a bit more patience for Chapter 22 - it was due to post on 7/12, but life is complicated, so I'm gonna have to delay its posting until 7/19. Sorry guys!  
> <3  
>  vex.


	22. 10:31pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor’s plans do NOT involve windmills.

 

_**"To outsiders, Ecstasy-fuelled raving might seem mindless hedonism..."** _

[Utopian Pharmacology](http://hedweb.com/ecstasy/index.html)

 

**10:31pm**

“Sun, or Moon?”

Victor was sleeping hard, splayed out across the bed. Greg’s mouth leaned in close and repeated the question, quietly murmuring it into his ear. 

“Sun, or Moon?” 

Victor shifted in his sleep, waking slow. Greg startled awake most days, even without an alarm clock, but Victor’s waking was a slow, sleepy rise to consciousness. Eyes still closed, he smiled and answered the question. “Sun,” he said, and opened his mouth. Greg dropped the bright yellow disc, stamped with a sun, into his mouth like it was a sacrament. 

“That makes me the moon,” Greg smiled, and swallowed the light blue disc, chasing it with water. He crushed his lips against Victor’s until the American pulled him back into bed, and still Victor resisted cracking an eyelid.  

“What time is it?” He asked. 

“Little after ten at night,” Greg said, slipping down beneath the sheets. 

“We should get up,” Victor said, or rather, _wanted_ to say, but the words got lost the feel of Greg’s mouth, hot and slick along his cock.  

Victor kept his eyes closed and let out a low growl of approval, his hand reaching for the biker’s hair. Their plans for the night could definitely wait.  

After all, what was life without improvisation?  

 

***** 

 

 **11:26pm**  

“LEIDSEPLEINNNNN!”  

The capacity crowd cheered the moment the boys stepped onto Tram 5, both grinning like mad. After all, what better place for a party than a municipal tram?

At this hour, the crowd was thick and diverse, with most passengers already drunk or well on their way to total inebriation. Victor and Greg paid their fares, and then happily found a handhold to brace themselves against before the tram pulled to its next stop.  

Greg looked around, drinking it all in, the atmosphere bright and happy, perfectly attuned to the ecstasy high that had finally fully kicked in. The sights and sounds and colors around them, just on this tram, were enough to entertain Greg for hours, and he looked to Victor, full of wonder. “You feeling this?” 

Victor threw his free hand around Greg’s waist and pulled him in tightly. “Just you wait until we get there.” 

Beside them, two skateboard-wielding Dutch teenagers squabbled over a mobile phone. A shirtless man wearing a cowboy hat near the door played acoustic guitar, singing along and giving this tram ride its very own soundtrack --  unfortunately, as the faint strains of _zig-a-zig ah_ reached Greg’s ears, he realized exactly what that soundtrack was. To their left, a androgynous-looking couple snogged, utterly oblivious to the world around them, and directly across from them, a woman with purple hair shared a flask with her girlfriends, chattering away in French. The women took turns eyeing both Greg and Victor, coquettish glances interspersed with knowing smiles. At the next stop, a trio of university students entered, followed by an older hipster couple and everyone, en masse, pushed to the back of the tram to make room when a rollerskating drag queen wearing three-foot fairy wings climbed on board.  

“Tell me you see wings,” Greg said. 

“I definitely see wings.” Victor confirmed, and squeezed Greg’s hip. “Goddamn, I love this tram. I wish we were tripping…” 

“I have it under great authority that I might know a source for that...”  

“You do,” Victor breathed into his ear, “Intimately.” And Greg was gone for a moment, recalling the events of earlier in the day. 

Despite their intentions, most of the Sharpie’d limits list had washed away in the shower, so Victor had been forced to go over the list again in fresh marker, making it infinitely readable. They’d shared a mirror as they got dressed, pulling on clothing and pulling it off, arguing about fit and even swapping shirts at one point – but the polyester had made Greg itch, and Greg’s t-shirt had been too short on the American. In the end, Victor had gone predictably flamboyant with his shirt, a fitted black and gold print monstrosity that looked not quite so monstrous underneath Greg’s loaner jacket. Greg, on the other hand, had gone predictably simple, opting for a plain white t-shirt, a little tighter than he usually went. 

“You sure this looks okay?” He’d asked, looking at himself critically in the mirror. 

“Are you kidding?” Victor had growled, noting the way the shirt rode up at the waist, revealing a very select view of a small, lickable band of flesh at his waist. “Christ. Yes. Very okay.” 

Half an hour later and they were on the tram, on their way to Leidseplein, and Victor couldn’t help but notice how that bit of flesh had not gone unnoticed, and was now getting steady stares from the French girls. Irritated, Victor shifted his position, swiveling on the metal handhold until he stood between Greg and the girls, blocking their view. _There,_ he thought, _fixed it,_ whileGreg remained blissfully unaware…

It wasn’t long before the tram pulled into Leidseplein Square, and another riotous cheer rose up from the Tram 5 passengers. Victor and Greg trailed out, and for one wondrous moment, they just stood there, taking it all in. 

In the 17th century, Leidseplein Square was hardly a place of wonder – it was, in fact, a parking lot, the place where farmers would park their wagons before entering the City Centre. By the late 20th century, however, it had transformed, becoming nightclub central for Amsterdamned late night revellers. Dozens of bars lined the square and the streets that fed into it, with Paradiso, The Bulldog Palace and the granddaddy of them all, Melkweg, forming the triumvirate of Amsterdam nightlife. In the middle of the square there were small tables and chairs, filled with partygoers, even at this time of year. In the wintertime, the tables and chairs went away, when the city turned the square into an ice skating rink – a brave choice, considering all the drinking, smoking and tripping that went on. The trees in the square were each lit with fairy lights, and colorful neon was splashed across every building, bright blues and pinks that somehow felt very different from the aggressive reds of De Wallen. 

To Greg, it was utterly breathtaking. The entire space was so abuzz with life and movement, energy and excitement, he didn’t even care that his reaction was artificially heightened. He turned to Victor and grabbed his hand, pulling him into the center of the square, shouting “This is amazing!” at the top of his lungs. 

“I’m glad you like it!” Victor smiled. 

“It’s fantastic!” Greg exclaimed, and whirled around. “So what am I looking at?” 

Victor smiled, and quickly spoke pointing out areas of interest. “Okay, there’s everything here. Drinking bars, live music venues, dance clubs, coffeeshops, even a goddamned comedy club, which isn’t half bad, actually. Bunch of restaurants, of course, but the main party is right here, in this square…” 

As if on cue, a plume of flame flared at the southwest edge of the square, no more than twenty paces away, and Greg’s eyes went wide. “What the fuck was that?” 

Victor turned and smirked. “Fire-breather. Lots of street performers here.” 

“It’s a bloody circus!” Greg marveled. 

“Hell yeah it is!” Victor agreed, and tousled Greg’s hair. “So: Alcohol? Yes? Let’s go!”    

 

*****

 

**Tuesday, October 21, 1997**

**12:04am – _The Drinking Bar_**  

“Alright, friends, don’t try this at home.” The bartender said, putting on a show for them, laying out the items on the bar, just so. “Pint of lager, double shot of amaretto and Bacardi 151, disposable lighter – but I’ll be handling the flame.” 

Greg was skeptical. “And _that’s_ supposed to taste like Dr. Pepper?” 

The bartender nodded, and juggled bottles as he put together the same items in front of Victor. The chemist explained, “Flame caramelizes the sugar, mixes with the almond amaretto taste and boom, Dr. Pepper.” 

“And the rum?” Greg asked. 

“Adds vanilla flavor, maybe? Or maybe it’s just there to fuel the fire.” 

“Maybe the real question to ask is why Dr. Pepper tastes so much like amaretto and rum,” the bartender quipped, and slouched against the bar. “So, you ready boys?” 

Victor rubbed his hands together, and they both stood up, little bit of adrenaline mixing with the X already in their systems.  

The bartender gave them last minute instructions. “I’ll light your shots on fire, then when you’re ready to drink, drop the flaming shots into your beer glass and chug it down in one go. On your mark,” the bartender switched the lighter’s flame setting to high, “Get set,” he flicked the Bic, dramatically revealing a four-inch flame, “GO!” he touched the flame to each of their shots with flourish, blue flames dancing on the liquid surface. 

Greg looked to Victor and Victor looked to Greg. “Let’s do this,” Victor said, and they both picked up their shots, dropped them into the lager glasses and chugged their pints, slamming their glasses down on the bar when they were done. 

Greg finished first, and raised his hands in victory. “Holy shit, that really does taste like Dr. Pepper!” 

Victor finished soon after, breathing hard after chugging. “Told you, didn’t I?” 

Greg kissed him then, tasting the flavors on both their tongues, before pulling back and turning to the bartender. “Yeah, we’re going to need one more round of those.” 

Victor winked.  “Make that two rounds!”    

 

***** 

 

 **12:41am – _The Live Music Venue_**  

“RADIOHEAD played here! _RADIOHEAD_!”  

“I know, man, this place is legendary,” Victor lit a cigarette. 

“Why couldn’t we have been here in 1994?! Look at all of this: Wu Tang Clan, Beck, Fucking Rammstein…” Greg scanned the posters on the wall. 

“Who’s on tonight?” 

Greg squinted, running his finger down the October listing. “Um…The Toy Dolls? Never heard of em…” 

“Well, it is fucking Tuesday,” Victor said, with a sigh, and tried very hard not to notice the high-heels-long-legs-short-skirt that had just walked into the club, which became increasingly harder to do, the moment _she_ noticed _him_. He tapped Greg on the shoulder, and they both gaped as the truly exceptional-looking woman – long dark hair, dark eyes, perfect pout – bought a ticket for the show. 

She passed them without so much as a glance, and then moved in the direction of the smaller of the two concert halls, where the band was playing.  

“You know,” said Victor casually to Greg, as they both watched the woman walk away. “I’m, uh…open, to new music.” 

“Me too, I’m a fucking music lover,” Greg said eagerly, equally locked-on. “The Toy Babies—“ 

“Dolls,” Victor corrected. 

“ _Dolls_ are my new favorite.” Greg said, without missing a beat. “Shall we?” 

“With not a moment to lose,” Victor confirmed, and they both scrambled to get in line.   

 

***** 

 

 **1:33am – _The Dance Club, Part One_**  

The pretty brunette, it turned out, had 1) terrible taste in music, 2) zero interest in the boys and 3) a girlfriend who didn’t hesitate to tell them to shove off, so Victor and Greg moved on to one of the dance clubs, and they hadn’t stopped dancing since they’d arrived. Not that the music choices merited it – Europop was universally, undeniably awful – but the beat was loud, the bass was strong and the club was crowded. Thankfully, they’d both left their jackets at coat check, and had preemptively downed nearly a litre of water each before hitting the dance floor. Dance club plus X meant Victor was gonna be a bitch and a half about hydration, and for a good reason: twenty minutes later, the hair at the back of Greg’s neck was already wet and his face was shiny, sweat running down into the collar of his shirt and generally making Victor insane. He pressed up against him, flirting, pulsing in time with the music and Greg responded, losing himself in the crowd, most of them just as high, in one way or another, as they were. 

 _Were_ , Victor noted, knowing they wouldn’t be for much longer. _Time for a top-up_. He reached into his pocket, fumbling around for the plastic baggie, the alcohol messing with his coordination – but after a moment, he was able to pluck two doses discreetly from the bag. 

“Open your mouth.” Victor persuaded, dancing up on Greg: eyes narrowed, small smirk, sexy as fuck, Jesus… 

“What, I don’t get a choice?” Greg protested, feigning outrage. “No ‘unicorn or rocketship’? No ‘ice cream cone or bunny rabbit?” 

“Your only choice right now is whether or not you want to take it,” Victor said, “And for the record, I would _never_ make a dose with a rabbit stamp. So,” He murmured, running a hand down the front of Greg’s jeans, “Do…you…want it?” 

Greg moved against the other man’s hand, letting out a little groan as he opened his mouth and Victor placed the dose on his tongue, echoing the way Greg had dosed him earlier in the night. Then, as before, they sealed the deal with a kiss.  

For a moment, everything around them fell away.  

For a moment, _this_ moment felt like forever.    

 

***** 

 

 **2:10am – _The Dance Club, Part Two_**  

“Two waters – no, four waters – and two shots of something, I dunno, _blue_ ,” Greg ordered, thumping his hands against the bar top in time with the music, eager to get back out there and dance. 

He downed his waters as he waited for Victor to return from the loo, scanning the crowd. A slightly younger man with very short, very platinum blond hair took a place at the bar beside him, placed his order, and scanned the crowd as well. 

“ _Dieser Club ist das Schlimmste,_ ” the man said in what Greg guessed to be German. It was too clipped to be Dutch, at any rate.  

Greg shot him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I don’t-don’t understand—“ 

The other man interrupted him, and continued on. “ _Gott sei Dank gibt es Haschisch, oder?_ “ 

“I’m really, sorry but I don’t speak Ger—“ Greg paused mid-word then, when the presumed German pulled a wadded-up piece of tinfoil out of his pocket, along with a small, expensive-looking pipe.  “That’s bloody hashish, isn’t it?” 

“ _Haschisch, ja_ ,” he said, pressing a bit of the sticky resin into the pipe and taking a hit and holding it. When he finally exhaled, he cocked his head, and held the pipe out to him. “ _Willst du etwas?_ ” 

Greg was tempted. He’d never smoked hash, never even seen it in person, and the idea of it was vaguely exotic, although he might’ve been confusing it with opium. But the guy seemed friendly, and new experiences seemed to be the call of the weekend, so why not? Why the fuck _wouldn’t_ he say yes? 

“No, man, thanks. Um, _Danke_.” Greg said politely, and lifted his blue shot, “Cheers, though,” he said, and downed it. The man nodded, pocketed his pipe and moved out of the bar area.  

“Wait – what did I just miss?” asked a voice behind him, and it was Victor, returning from the loo and appropriately gobsmacked. “Did reckless Road Rash just steer _himself_ away from a sketchy situation?” 

“Shut up and drink this – it’s blue.” Greg said, and handed the man his shot.  

“Seriously, Greg,” Victor started, before knocking the shot back, and making a face. “God, that’s awful – what is it, pineapple? – But I mean it, I’m impressed.” 

“I may be reckless, sometimes, but I’m not a child.” Greg said, and reached into Victor’s pocket, swiping one of his pre-rolled Drum tobacco cigarettes and lighting it. With a pointed wink, he added, “I know very well that taking drugs from strangers is never a good idea… is it?”

 “No,” Victor said, utterly charmed. “No, it’s a fucking terrible idea.” 

“Drink your water,” Greg said, and while he should have been annoyed by Victor’s assumption that he’d automatically make the wrong choice, he was honestly chuffed to make him, what?  Proud? How weird was that?  

“Drink both glasses,” Greg said, “and then take me back out to the dancefloor – I think the last dose is kicking in.”     

 

***** 

 

 **2:35am – _The Dance Club, Part Three_**  

“It’s fucking hot!” Greg shouted. 

Victor leaned in. “You want water?” 

Greg shook his head. “Just finished a bottle.” he said, running his hand along the back of his neck.  

“I like you like this,” Victor said, gripping him close and whispering in his ear.  Their hips tight against each other, and the crowd was dense enough that they could probably fuck right here in the middle of the dance floor without anyone knowing.  They _could_ , but that didn’t mean they _would_ or even _should_. After all, Greg had just demonstrated a certain degree of self-preservation that Victor didn’t want to negate with actual sex in public, but oh, how he was tempted. They’d both been half-hard, off and on, since the concert cockblock, and the sight of Greg, sweat slicked and breathless was almost too much to take.   

“You want to take a break?” Victor asked, and bit his ear.  

“Not yet,” Greg said, the energy still thrumming through his legs, his arms, along the base of his spine. Ecstasy, he knew, was dangerous on a few levels, but it was certainly giving him a workout. He hadn’t sweated this much, maybe ever. He looked to the people around him, and saw that most of the guys on the dance floor had stripped down, bare to the waist. Without a hesitation, Greg joined them, pulling off his t-shirt and tucking it the edge of it into his pocket -- without thinking at all about what was underneath. 

Victor, surprised by the move, stepped slightly back and bit his lip. “Well,” he said, with a predatory purr, “look at you.” 

Greg shot him a confused look and then followed his gaze, right down to the damp-but-still-legible Sharpie list on his chest. Oh. He shrugged, defiantly. “I was hot.” 

“You _are_ hot.” Victor grabbed him by the belt buckle. “Was this a mistake, or do you really want to play with this, here and now?” 

“Dunno. It’s kind of sexy,” Greg said, his pulse racing. “Besides, if _you_ didn’t want this to happen tonight, you wouldn’t have taken the time to re-write it after the shower, would you?” Greg teased.   

Victor couldn’t deny it. He was right, he had wanted to see this. “Okay, but I’m policing it, understood?” Victor said. “I’m not leaving your side.” 

Greg smiled. “Victor: just shut up and dance, alright? Let’s see what happens…”  

What happened didn’t take very long to happen. Almost immediately, Greg’s chest began garnering attention. Girls and boys alike “read” him, ran their fingers down his chest, and Victor kept a watchful eye, already assessing when he would pull the plug on this particular experiment. 

Sharpie lists are common in kink – but in clubs like that, BDSM clubs, swing clubs, they’re there for a legitimate reason: to inform other participants of the ground rules. Here, though, Greg’s list was merely salacious, a tease, a coy refusal of acts that weren’t even permitted in this establishment. It was a dance club, not a sex club, so things could only go so far – but until they reached that line, Victor was very happy to watch. 

Greg was already out in space, immediately surrendering to the attention, to the examination of strangers, the way they looked at him, talked to him and touched him without asking. Most were innocent enough, at least at first, brushing their hand on his arm, on his shoulder, some eventually escalating, stroking his belly, his thigh, grabbing his ass.  

“I’m a ‘consenting human adult’,” one girl quoted, and pinched his nipple. Victor tensed as her date approached, only to see him do the same to Greg’s other nipple. The couple’s mouths immediately sought each other out, and they shared a kiss over Greg’s grafitti’d chest. Another woman pressed up behind him, and he could feel her breasts pressing into his bare back. A man licked his mouth open in a scorching kiss. Some called him beautiful, some called him a slut. More women responded to him than men, interestingly enough – although not that surprising, considering they weren;t in a gay bar. What was surprising, to Greg at least, was the fact that the women were so bold, making overt sexual advances, cupping his cock through his jeans, kissing him and biting into his neck. Greg swooned, and closed his eyes, giving in to it all, knowing that Victor was watching over him, trusting Victor, thinking of him, even when most of the kisses that crossed his lips were lipstick-coated and candy-perfumed. 

For his part, Victor let it go. What made this different for him than, say, the stares of the girls on the tram, had been the fact that he was allowing this. This situation was controlled to some extent, deemed acceptable by him and could be stopped at any moment. He was in charge, and when one adventurous hand went too far, undoing Greg’s belt and pulling at the zip, he was the one who called it quits. 

“That’s enough, party’s over,” Victor said, and moved in, extracting Greg from the crowd and taking him into the loo, into the handicapped stall, and a half-second later, into his mouth.  

“You loved that, didn’t you?” Victor hummed on the upstroke, before moving down and tightening his lips, pulling hard on his cock, fast and quick.  

Greg covered his own mouth, muting the sound of his own gasps and moans, hips working hard, meeting Victor’s mouth stroke for stroke, and fuck, he could cum right here, given half a chance. “You-you loved it, too,” he responded, keeping his voice low.  

“Fucking right I did,” Victor said, breathlessly. 

The restroom was one of several in the club, on one of the upper floors, but it was multi-stalled -- and while it had seemed empty when they’d come in, someone could have been in there when they came in. They also both half-expected that some of the other dance floor patrons might find them. In the meantime, though… 

Victor pulled off Greg’s cock and began pulling at his own jeans, gesturing for Greg to do the same. He rooted around in his own pocket for condoms and a packet of lube.  

“Come here,” Victor rasped once his condom was sorted, and helped Greg out of his pants, handing him the remaining condom when he was done. He gave hi the lube packet and then in one fluid motion, he lifted him up, and slammed his back firmly against the metal stall. Greg ripped the lube packet open and poured it into his palm, pressing fingers inside himself, groaning obscenely as he did. When he was done, reached down to wipe whatever slick remained on his fingers over Victor’s bobbing cock. The feel of those fingers against him was all Victor needed, and he angled Greg’s hips just so, plunging inside him all at once. It felt so perfect, he couldn’t help but growl, slamming into him, and Greg took it, writhing against the wall, still stifling himself, but this time with his forearm. His other arm slapped at his cock and together, both Victor and Greg careened, crashing into each other, falling into a rough sort of sync, and when they came, it was without permissions, courtesies or games. They were both too far gone to have it go any other way. 

When it was done, kisses were quietly exchanged, shuddering breaths were exhaled, and Victor slowly slid Greg down, onto his own shaky legs. They both dressed quickly, pausing occasionally to nip at each other’s lips.  

Once they were ready to go, Greg put his hand on the stall door and paused to smile at Victor, shaking his head. “What you do to me,” he said and pushed the door open… 

…only to reveal that they were, in fact, not alone. 

“Bonsoir.” The purple-haired girl from the tram leaned against the countertop, with her arms crossed, sporting a smug look on her face. She held an unlit cigarette in one hand, and she lifted it, boldly. “Got a light?” 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love me some cliffhangers…
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
> \- [Victor’s shirt](http://www.aliexpress.com/item-img/Print-Royal-Gold-Mens-Luxury-Dress-Shirt-Black-Print-Brand-Shirts-Stylish-Famous-Designer-Clothes-Club/32274354846.html)
> 
> \- [What Greg’s wearing](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/01/12/article-2537902-1A942C2000000578-813_634x874.jpg) (hi Fassy!)
> 
> \- Tram soundtrack (sorry, couldn’t help myself…)
> 
> \- [Leidsepleinnnnn!](http://partytrail.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/48637811-1024x680.jpg) [Leidsepleinnnnn!](http://cdn2.getyourguide.com/img/tour_img-212648-92.jpg) [Leidsepleinnnnn!](http://c8.alamy.com/comp/A40D9G/amsterdam-leidseplein-people-on-terras-at-night-with-nightlife-and-A40D9G.jpg)
> 
> \- [“I’m a Pepper, You’re a Pepper…”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hROaI5f81Ww) Again, go to a bar for this – but if you must try this at home, I’m not responsible for any injuries…
> 
> \- [Melkweg concerts](http://www.last.fm/venue/8778669+Melkweg/events/1997) going back to 1979
> 
> \- [Victor would never make X like this](http://41.media.tumblr.com/c89f201d471b22e4c568b33812f41cc5/tumblr_n5by98lk4Q1smghnuo1_1280.jpg%0A)
> 
> \- Edited to add: In the comments, GRUMPYLITTLEHEDGEHOG imagined Greg pogoing [to this Toy Dolls song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9m7tPikH0UA) \-- and I wholeheartedly agree!
> 
> \- Once again, I’ve decided at the last minute to include a few phrases in a language I don’t know. I’m sure the German presented here is atrocious, PLEASE HELP ME MAKE THIS BETTER! Drop me a line and I’ll tell you what I fed into Google Translate, and I will happily revise as needed! ***THANK YOU KIRIN CALLS! :-)***
> 
>  
> 
> In the home stretch! One more chapter left! 
> 
> Thanks for your comments and kind messages here and on my Tumblr! I appreciate your readership! See you in two weeks!
> 
> <3  
>  vex.


	23. 3:02am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end.  
> So fucking be it.

   

**“Inhibitions are loosened, egos are softened and people experience a close emotional bond with others.”**

[Rough Guide](http://www.urban75.com/Drugs/e_guide.html)

**3:02am**

Victor was the first to respond.

“You were on the bus,” he said, and stepped forward to light her cigarette. The woman inclined her head just far enough to touch tip to flame.

“As were you, ” She said, exhaling and then looking up at him with a dangerous smile. She slid her eyes in Greg’s direction. “Do you think you could give us a moment?”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “Now hang on a moment,” he turned to Victor. ”Do you know this girl?”

Victor shook his head. “I don’t know her, but I think I know of her,” he said, and with a resigned sigh, he dug through his pockets, pulled out their two coat check tickets and handed them to Greg. “Look, Greg, go get our coats, alright? I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Victor, what’s going on?”

“Just, just go, Greg. It’s nothing. It’s business.” Victor said, lying automatically.

“Are you sure? Something seems—“

“Greg,” Victor interrupted, giving him a meaningful look. “Everything’s good. This won’t take long, I promise.”

Greg nodded, slowly, processing his words. “Yeah, oh – well. Right. Okay, right,” he said, and shot them both an awkward glance before heading down the stairs. “Stay safe, Vic.”

They watched him go, heard his steps down the hall, and when Victor was reasonably sure he was out of earshot, he turned to the woman and lit a cigarette of his own.

“So,” he said, “When did she call you?”

 

*****

 **3:05am**  

There was a queue at coat check, but everyone in it was still high or drunk or both, so the mood was still festive. Greg leaned back, flicking the edges of the coat check tickets with his fingernail, impatient. His gaze inevitably shifted to the ceiling, to imagining the scene upstairs. If Victor and the purple-haired girl were having sex – and that look certainly seemed to imply it – then Greg had to hand it to him for having the shortest refraction time in the history of mankind.  

“Crazy party, right?” The blonde in front of him turned and leaned against the wall beside him. She spoke English with a slight Dutch accent, and she’d clearly been dancing all night - her face was still dewy with sweat.  

“What?” Greg said, startled out of his thoughts. “Oh, yeah. Crazy.” 

The thing was, he only vaguely remembered the purple-haired girl from the bus – clearly she’d made a much bigger impression on Victor. He wondered, idly, if she’d been following them all evening.  

“I came out here with a big group.” The blonde said, trying again. 

He felt her stare. “I’m sorry, what did you--?” 

“I said I came here with a big group,” she said, leaning in to avoid having to shout. “I’m Lara,” she said, and, charmingly, held out her hand to shake his.

He put his hand in hers, and that was when Greg stopped thinking about what was potentially happening upstairs, and started paying attention to what was actually happening right in front of him.  

 

***** 

 

 **3:08am**  

“It hasn’t even been 24 hours!” 

The purple-haired girl shrugged, and extinguished her cigarette with water from the sink. “D was very clear. It ends tonight.” 

“Or else what?” 

“Or else she’s kicking you out of the canal house.” 

Victor kicked at the stall door, annoyed. “I should never have gone to Paris.” 

“From what I understand there are a lot of things you shouldn’t have done in the last few days.” She turned to face the bathroom mirror, and reached into her purse, extracting lipstick a shade too dark for her complexion. 

Victor watched her curiously. “I always wondered about you, you know. The mysterious Sylvie.” 

“You were always a fictional character to me, too,” she admitted. “Mom doesn’t talk much about her friends with me, thank god, but she has said a thing or two about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Victor asked, with a small smile. “What’d she say?” 

“Just that you were smart. And handsome,” she said, as she put on her lipstick. “And that you always fell for the prettiest man in the room.” She looked at him through the mirror and pointed, accusingly. “You were a cautionary tale.” 

Victor gave a bitter laugh. “Sugarpop, you have no idea.” 

 

***** 

 

 **3:12am**  

“First Brit met up with a bunch of her university friends at the Bulldog,” Lara explained, counting off her friends’ hook-ups on her fingers as they moved closer to the front of the queue. “Niels went off with some girl he talked to for five minutes in a coffeeshop, Karl ran into his ex and once it was down to just Martine and I, we went dancing. Eventually, of course, she met some American, and the minute he opened his mouth, I knew it was all over. She loves American accents, says they sound like the movies.”  

“Exactly!” Greg said, “I was just telling my friend that!” 

Lara smiled. “Your friend?” 

“Yeah, he’s, um,” Greg awkwardly pointed up the stairs. “He’s, he’ll be down in a few minutes. I’m picking up our coats. Sometimes he sounds like a cowboy when he speaks. More when he’s drunk.” 

“Martine’s sounded like a gangster movie. Cowboy is better.” 

Greg agreed. The queue moved forward.  

“Of course,” Lara continued, shyly, “British accents are best of all.” 

Greg raised his eyebrows.   

 

***** 

 

 **3:13am**  

“So what are you getting out of all of this?” Victor asked, “Tracking me down and delivering this message? I know you two aren’t exactly close.” 

“Not since I moved in with Dad, no.” She zipped up her makeup bag, and pulled at her bangs. She turned away from the mirror and faced him directly. “If this situation gets sorted by sunrise, I get the down payment on a motorcycle I’ve been wanting forever.” 

“A _motorcycle_?” Victor laughed loudly, then, a bark of a laugh that echoed in the tile room. “A fucking motorcycle!” 

Sylvie shook her head. “Why are you laughing?” 

“If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry,” Victor said, letting the laugh dwindle and fall into a resigned sigh. “Alright, Sylvie. I surrender. Fuck it -- D wins, and you get your motorcycle. It’s only fitting.” 

“Good.” 

“Curious, though,” Victor asked, “what kind of motorcycle is it?” 

“An old one. You like bikes?” Sylvie asked, shouldering her purse. 

“More and more every day.” 

“It’s a 1941 Indian Sport Scout 700. Know it?” 

“Nope,” Victor said, a little relieved that the universe wasn’t 100% aligned. “But I bet it’s fucking cool.”

 

 

***** 

 

 **3:16am**  

Greg and Lara walked out into the cold night air, pulling their coats on. Greg clutched Victor’s in his hand, feeling its familiar weight in the palm of his hand. He wondered how long he’d have to wait for Victor, or even if he should.

“So, where do you go from here?” Lara asked.

“I’ve got to wait for Victor, at least for a little while, but other than that,” Greg shrugged. “No plans. You?”

Lara frowned, slightly. “Home, I’m afraid. I’ve got work tomorrow. I do these…tour things at the Heineken factory. Ridiculous. Leaves me smelling of beer all night long.”

“So _that’s_ why I like you,” Greg grinned, and she punched him in the shoulder. “Ow, you brute! No, that’s too bad. Not the beer thing, the going home thing. I was enjoying talking to you.”

“Well, once your friend joins us,” Lara said, “You can walk me home.”

Greg nodded and smiled. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

 

***** 

 

 **3:17am**  

Victor and Sylvie came downstairs, landing on the first floor near the coat check, and Victor scanned the crowd for Greg. “He must be outside.”

Sylvie handed him a card with her mobile number scribbled on it in pen. “Call me when it’s done. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“I’ll get there myself.”

“I’m supposed to watch you take off.”

Victor flexed the muscles in his jaw, and reluctantly took the card. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Of course you don’t.” Sylvie said. “Because you’re a selfish little shit.” She bussed him on the cheeks, first the right, then the left, then the right again. “Dag.”

“Dag.” Victor called after her, as she exited through a side door. He sighed, folded the card she’d given him and shoved it into his pocket, watching as the last few people left in the club headed out the door.

Steeling himself, he followed them out.

 

***** 

 

 **3:18am**  

Victor had expected to find Greg waiting impatiently for him at the bottom of the stairs. Instead, he found him sitting happily outside, at one of the cafe tables next door…

 …and he was not alone.

“Sorry that took so long,” Victor said, trying his best to appear normal in the aftermath of his conversation with Sylvie, and in the presence of this stranger.

“No worries, we were just talking.” Greg said, indicating Lara, clearly pleased with himself. He introduced them, and even though Victor shook hands like a nice guy and smiled in all the right places, his mind was spinning. He’d left Greg alone for all of, what? 15 minutes? And he’d already pulled – _and pulled a_ _woman_ – although, to be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure it would have upset him any less if he’d pulled a man. Victor knew he had no right to be jealous, he had no claim on Greg, had said as much to D in Paris, and moments before, he’d just agreed to give up his hold on the boy entirely…except, that wasn’t even the case, was it? His hold on Greg had only ever been tenuous and slipping – and this new girl, this bright and bubbly baby Lara person, who looked like she tasted of cotton candy? She was the living, breathing _, giggling_ proof of that. If this was what Greg wanted, Victor realized, there was no chance he’d ever keep hold of him.

 “I promised we’d walk Lara home, do you mind?” Greg explained, handing Victor’s coat to him. “Her friends all left her.”’

“I don’t mind,” Victor said, as he pulled on the jacket. Lara’s presence strengthened his resolve. They’d drop her off and then they’d walk home together and on the way home, they’d talk. It would be easy. Better, even, because he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye when he told him -- although, downside, Greg could push him into a canal if he got mad enough. He’d just have to take his chances. “So where to?”

They headed north, hit the Dam and kept going, past the square, past the cross road to Max’s, and the entire time they walked, Greg and Lara chattered. Their easy patter served as a sick little counterpoint to Victor’s own internal misery, and he quickened their pace until they all found themselves standing in front of Centraal Station.

“Um, Lara?” Greg asked, tentatively. “Are we taking a train?”

 “No, silly, we’re just cutting through the station.”

Victor pushed the door open for the couple, and then followed them inside.

“But all that’s on the other side is water,” Greg said, confused. “I know. We had dinner on a boat there this weekend.”

Down the stairs and past the track entrances, past the shops and out the back door to the docks, and Greg raised his hands. “See? Nothing here – oh, unless you live on the hotel boat?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t live on a hotel boat, Greg. Just, come with me…”

When she turned left, Victor knew exactly where she was headed, but it wasn’t until they actually found themselves on the dock that Greg sorted it out. “The ferry!”

“De Pont, yeah,” Lara said, with a smile. “I live in Amsterdam Noord, on the other side of Het IJ.”

“That’s so cool, we were just talking about this ferry the other day,” Greg said eagerly.

Victor noticed that Greg didn’t mention who his dinner companions were, nor what he’d done with them the previous night. As he explained it, it was just dinner with Victor, and some of “Victor’s friends”.   _Moederneuker…_

By the time they got to the dock, there were lots of other people there, waiting for the ferry to make the short trip back from the other shore. Greg and Lara settled into one of the glass shelters, and Victor stepped away to light a cigarette. From a distance, he watched the two of them, and even as jealous as he was, it still made him sad, knowing that ultimately, the two of them weren’t any more meant to be than he and Greg were. When the ferry pulled up, he pitched the cigarette in the canal, and joined Greg and Lara in the queue.

“Inside, or out?” Greg asked as they dodged people and bikes to get onboard. The ferry boat featured two open-air decks, one at each end, and an enclosed cabin in the middle that housed benches and restrooms and a very small concessions stand.

“You guys go out to the deck out front,” Lara said to Greg, indicating the fore deck. “I’m going to run in to the ladies. Meet you there.”

Both men moved forward, walking through the cabin and out to the other side.

“So, were you surprised?” Greg asked, grinning. He reached into Victor’s pocket for a cigarette.

Victor relaxed, happy to have a moment with him alone. “By Lara? Yeah, you could definitely say that.”

“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Greg said, exhaling. “A nice girl.”

“Yeah, well,” Victor said, leaning back against the wall. “Nice girls don’t often choose boys who do the kinds of things you did on the dance floor tonight.”

“She didn’t see, thank god,” Greg said, gleeful and unaware. “She and her friend were being chatted up by some American out on the patio when all that was going down. Believe me, that was the first thing I asked.”

“Oh yes, by all means, thank god she didn’t see you enjoying yourself with me, that would have been embarrassing.” Victor spat, stung by Greg’s thoughtless words. He thrust his hands in his pocket, feeling the tickle of Sylvie’s card against his fingers. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky _us_ ,” Greg corrected. “See? We both got lucky tonight. Your girl in the loo? She was fit, wasn’t she? I was a bit miffed when you sent me away, but I’ll bet you had a good time…”

_Oh, fucking hell…_

“Greg,” Victor said, and the realization of what had happened, the not-so-simple misunderstanding came crashing down all around him, “You have to understand, that girl and I—“

“No, I know, it’s okay.” Greg said, eagerly. “I mean, I was hurt, but then I sorted it out. This was tonight’s game, right? Group on Saturday, singles tonight, makes total sense. Was glad I found Lara – I mean, how humiliating would it have been if I hadn’t pulled?”

Victor coughed to cover his reaction, just as he spotted Lara making her way outside. “You figured it out, aren’t you clever?” Victor praised, and slipped Greg’s cigarette out from between his fingers, smiling just a little too broadly. “I’m glad you found her, too, Greg.”

Lara approached, her lipstick freshly-applied. “You boys seem happy,”

“That is, indeed, what we seem,” Victor said, punctuating his statement with a plume of smoke.

She made a face and waved it away, but whatever pleasure he might’ve taken in her discomfort five minutes ago had disappeared into thin air, just like the smoke. It wasn’t her fault Greg was bouncing around her like a puppy. It wasn’t even Greg’s fault. It was, apparently, his fault, Victor’s, for not making it clear that Sylvie _wasn’t_ a hookup.

Just like everything else in this wretched situation, it was Victor’s fault.

Moments later, the ferry pulled out from the dock, and headed out for Buiksloterweg, just across the river IJ.

 

***** 

 

 **3:45am**  

“Alright, so, wait if you want, but if you get tired of waiting, go home and I’ll meet you back at the house. I know how to get home from here,” Greg said, putting his hand on Victor’s shoulder. It was the first time he’d touched him in Lara’s presence, but it was a friendly touch, nothing more.

“Right.” Victor said. Around them, passengers pushed forward and an alarm sounded, indicating the lowering of the gangplank.

Greg leaned, adding under his breath, “I’m telling you, though, if she asks me in, I’m bloody well going in, yeah?” He slipped a hand into Victor’s coat pocket and swiped a condom, checking over his shoulder to see if Lara had seen. “Just in case,” he said.

“Of course,” Victor replied feebly, but managed a wink. “Have fun.”

“Nice meeting you, Victor!” shouted Lara as she disembarked, with Greg beaming by her side.

Victor raised his hand to wave, feeling more than a little shellshocked.

The remaining passengers exited, filtering around Victor, leaving him the only passenger staying aboard. With everyone else gone, the ferry felt wide around him, lonely,  and even though Victor knew that Greg would eventually be coming back, even though he knew that in the end, _he’d_ be the one to end things, it still felt like being abandoned.

After everyone had gone, a voice trailed down from above. “Are you getting off, son?”

Victor looked up. The Ferry Captain had stepped out of the plexiglass bridge and looked at him, expectantly.

“No, I’m…” Victor’s sentence trailed off, not really certain how to explain the situation. “I’m staying on board, if that’s alright. My friend – I’m waiting on my friend.” He made a gesture toward the dock.

“Sure,” the Captain said, with a slight shrug. “Just steer clear of the gangplank, I’m about to close it.”

Victor stumbled back, and the alarm sounded again. He stared at the mechanism, watching the way the gangplank lifted and locked into place. The alarm ended and boat pushed forward.

 

*****

 

 **4:24am**  

Victor hadn’t expected Greg to be back for the 4:00 ferry, nor the 4:12. He’d hoped, but hadn’t expected it. But this one? This one, he’d thought, was solid. It gave Greg half an hour to get Lara home, kiss her at the door and then get back to the dock. If he wasn’t there this time, Victor could be reasonably sure that Lara had invited him in, and was in the process of lifting her skirt, pushing him back on the bed, calling out his name _…_

Greg wasn’t at the dock.

“He’ll be there next time,” came the Captain from the bridge, “I can feel it.”

“That’s what you’ve said the last two times,” Victor said, resigned. The rides back to Centraal Station had been entirely empty but for Victor, and in the interim, he and the Captain had kicked up a little conversation.

The gangplank was dropped and as they waited for the requisite time before raising it and shoving off again, the Captain looked down at him from the railing. “Want to come up to the bridge?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a sad little fuck all alone down there on the deck, and up here you’re the cool guy who rides with the Captain.”

Victor smiled. “Who says you’re not the sad little fuck, all alone up there in your plastic box?”

"Excellent point," The Captain grinned. “Fine, then join me up here, son, and gimme one of your cigarettes. Been watching you roll ‘em for the last thirty minutes, it’s the least you can do.”

Victor climbed the narrow white metal stairs that led up to the bridge and joined him at the railing. He handed him a cigarette.

“What are you going to do with that when we have to leave in...what? 30 seconds?” Victor raised his eyebrows at the _Absolutely No Smoking_ sign on the bridge door.

The captain peered at the digital clock through the window. “36 seconds. Easy. That’s when I hand it to you.”

Victor laughed. “Well that’s alright, then, Cap.”

 

*****

 

**4:46pm**

Over the mostly passenger-less trips that followed, Victor ended up telling Cap the whole sordid story, telling him everything except the sexy details. He did include the romantic parts, though. That had surprised him - something about the water and the wind and the nighttime, something about talking to a stranger, it all conspired to loosen his tongue.

“You have to tell him, son” The Captain steered the boat while Victor sprawled out on the bridge, a clipboard in his lap, his feet up on the console. “Time is running out.” 

“I know,” Victor said, “It’s just…finding the words.”

“It’s not finding the words. It’s finding the courage.” The Captain reasoned.

“It’s finding both.” Victor said, and he picked up the pen and started again.

 

*****

 

 **5:06am**  

  
“He’s here,” Cap said, giving him a nudge. “Told you.”

Victor exhaled, simultaneously happy and sick inside. He went around to the railing as the ferry pulled in. From Victor’s vantage point on top of the boat, Greg looked small, standing all by himself on that dock. When the gangplank dropped, Greg looked up, his attention caught by the familiar figure standing next to the bridge.

“Victor?” Greg asked, shielding his eyes from the glaring lights. “What are you doing up there?” he shouted over the alarm, looking up at him like he was the most ridiculous man on earth.

“I happen to be the, uh,” he looked over at Captain, and nodded. “The cool guy who rides with the Captain.”

The alarm shut off and Greg boarded the boat. “How about being the cool guy who hangs with me in the cabin? It’s cold as fuck out here!”

He wasn’t wrong. In the last ten minutes, the temperature had dropped, and as much as Victor was digging being the cool guy, right now, he was more into being Greg’s guy, at least for the short amount of time they had left.

The cabin was warm, and empty, this time of day. Cap said it would be, until the morning commute began in earnest, at 7am. Greg and Victor slid into a bench together, happy for the warmth and the company.

“So, I guess she…?”

“Invited me in, yeah.” Greg said, but Victor couldn’t tell if he was blushing, or if the red in his cheeks was just there from the cold outside. “It was nice.”

Victor nodded. “Change of pace for you, I guess, after this weekend? ‘Nice’, I mean.”

Greg frowned. “You’re nice.”

“Not really,” Victor countered, but changed the subject quickly. “So, how’d you manage with the, uh…?” he motioned to Greg’s chest.

Greg looked down, and then laughed. “Oh. Kept my shirt on, easy. She lives with a bunch of other people in a house, so we kind of kept things, uh, quick.”

Victor nodded again, and stared out the window, distracted. Greg leaned in, his smile shifting serious. “Hey - you alright?”

Victor swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah, couldn’t be better. Cold is all."

“You know, it would’ve been okay if you’d gone on to the house.” Greg said. “I told you to.”

Victor licked his lips, and shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I just, was, uh,” Victor paused, looking for a plausible reason why he’d spend all this time pathetically waiting for Greg on this goddamned boat. “I was, um, having such a great time talking to Cap upstairs that time got away from me. I’m glad you had a good time with Lisa.”

“Lara.”

“Lara. Right.” Victor said, quickly. “Sorry.”

Greg stared at Victor for a moment, trying to sort out what exactly had happened to the man since the last time he’s seen him.

“Can we, um – I mean, can I…?” Greg stood up then, slightly, and braced his knee up on the bench, his body turned to Victor. “I feel like, things have…is it okay if I just…?” He slid into Victor’s lap, cautiously. 

“Yeah, ‘course it’s okay.” Victor’s voice sounded strange to his own ears, and he closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t anticipated feeling this overcome. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep it together, this flush of emotions fucking with him. This was bullshit. He drew in a long breath, opened his eyes and lifted his chin, brashly. “You…filthy thing, haven’t you, uh, had enough for tonight?”

Greg laughed, then, relieved, “Never enough, you know me.”

“That I do.” Victor said, threading his hand through Greg’s hair. He thought of what Sylvie had said, of being a cautionary tale. What was wrong with falling for handsome men, anyway? He pulled Greg's mouth down to his, and Victor imagined he could erase the memory of Lara’s bubblegum kisses with every press of his lips.

The boat came and went from Centraal Station, came and went from Buiksloterweg, and each time, the boys ignored it. They stayed put, right there on the bench, on this boat, in the middle of a river, in the middle of a country that was not their own, alone but together, and the rest of the world could go to hell for all they cared.

When the black sky turned dark blue and the edges of a pink sun started to peek through dark clouds, the American gently pulled away, his voice rough. “So, c-can I ask you something?”

Greg surfaced slowly, his lips swollen and bitten pink. “Ask me anything.”

“If you’d been here with Emma instead of me,” Victor said, trying to sound casual, “Would you have gone off with Lara?”

Greg shot him a confused smile. “What are you asking?”

“You’re used to being with women,” Victor said, absently toying with a lock of Greg’s hair. “I was just wondering if you would have needed Lara if you’d been here with Emma, instead of with me?”

“Wait.” Greg sat up straight and pushed away from Victor’s chest. “Are you – what? – upset? About Lara? 

“No, no, no, no, no,” Victor said, arms waving.

“Because you didn’t hesitate to send me away in the loo, did you?”

“I know, I know, but shit, no, I’m not upset.” Victor said, scrubbing his face with his hand. “I mean – all cards on the table, fine, yes, I was, upset – but it was totally stupid and completely unwarranted, and I just…I want. I want you to be happy. With a man or a woman or whatever. That’s all.”

“I am happy.”

“Not now. I mean, weeks from now. Months. Years.” Victor explained, frustrated. “I don’t know if you could, ultimately be…happy. With me, I mean. I don’t want you to have any regrets.”

“Well, that’s not gonna happen, Victor,” Greg said, sharply. “I gave up my rights to “no regrets” the minute I left that prison cell. You did, too.”  He put his hands on Victor shoulders and felt the tension there. “We’ll always have regrets. We always will. We can’t go back home. But at least we have each other.”

Victor wrapped his arms around Greg then, tightly, and then tighter still. He felt a lump rise in his throat, grateful that Greg couldn’t see his face. “Yeah,” he said, nodding resolutely. “Yeah, that makes sense. No way around it. I’m…sorry for dragging you into this mess.”

“You big fucking idiot,” Greg said, unsure of where all of this was coming from. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. You just held out your hand.”

“Technically, that is true,” Victor said slowly, composing himself before letting the other man go.

As Greg leaned back, his eyes flickered up to the clock on the wall. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, with a relieved expression.

“What?” Victor asked.

“You had me going there, shit,” Greg said, hand to his chest. “I just realised why you’re so wound up.” He jerked his head up towards the clock. “The fucking drugs wore off. You’re post-roll, man.”

Victor looked at the clock. He was right. It was nearing 5:30, almost exactly four hours after their last dose on the dance floor, and coming down from X -- even quality X like his – always had the potential to leave emotions raw and sensitive. Victor knew that wasn’t the reason for his behavior, of course, but he was willing to latch on to any reasonable explanation for his acting like it was their last night together, other than it actually _being_ their last night together. “You’re…absolutely right, Greg. Fuck. Withdrawal’s a real bitch.”

“Hey, and you _made_ that shit, so you’ve really got no one but yourself to blame.” Greg said, playfully. 

Victor just nodded. _Truer words were never spoken._

“You poor thing. Look, I’ll take care of you, alright?” Greg said, and stroked the hair away from Victor’s face. “Would it help to take another dose?” 

“Maybe later,” Victor said, and looked up to Greg, his eyes shining.  “For now, let’s just stay right here, is that okay? I mean, I know we should go home, but I just don’t want to move fro—” 

That’s when Greg interrupted him with a kiss.  
That’s when Victor decided that he wasn’t going to do a damn thing to stop him, and if that made him selfish, or gutless, so be it.

_So fucking be it._

 

*****

 

**6:45pm**

Victor woke, his head jerking up at the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s time, son.” 

Sleepily, he looked up, heard the steady drone of the engine below and remembered exactly where he was. “Cap. Thank you,” he said, quietly, so as not to wake Greg, who was still asleep on the bench beside him. “When’s sunrise?”

“You’ve got time,” The Captain said, whispering, “Did you do what you were supposed to do?”

Victor stood up, shook his head. The Captain made a disapproving noise.

“I never made any promises, okay?” Victor said. “Will you still look out for him?”

“It’s the least I can do, poor fucker,” The Captain said. “My shift’s done for the night. Deal’s a deal: I’ll stay right here. Two roundtrips and then I’ll make sure he wakes.”

“That’s all the head start I’ll need,” Victor said. “Thank you. So much, Cap.”

“Don’t thank me, son,” The Captain said. “Just fix it, for him. It’s the least _you_ can do.”

Victor nodded, and reached into his jacket pocket, taking out an envelope. He exhaled a shaky breath, stared at Greg’s sleeping form and fought back stupid tears that most certainly weren’t caused by coming down. He tucked the envelope gently into Greg’s inside coat pocket, and quickly kissed him on top of his head. 

“Stay safe, Road Rash,” he whispered to the sleeping man, and then turned away, leaving the cabin and the boat behind.

 

*****  
 

**6:59am**

  
In the end, Greg woke up on his own, as the ferry filled with noisy commuters.

The Ferry Captain called him son and quietly explained that Victor was gone, but that he’d left a note. He also called Victor a coward.

By the time Greg was done reading the letter, Greg agreed with him.

 

 

_Dear Greg,_

_If you’re reading this, I’m an utter shit._

_Then again, even if I had gotten up the courage to tell you this in person, I’d still be an utter shit, so shit either way._

_Okay. You told me on Sunday that you missed your life, your old life, back in England. This letter gives it back to you, all of it: your bikes and your garage job, your shitty flat and your asshole father, even Emma. Mostly Emma. Because if she’s half as wonderful as you think she is, you deserve someone like her, not me. Don’t believe me? You will in a second._

_Here goes:_

_I lied…when I said my friend hadn’t paid my bail._

_I lied…when I said that he pick-pocketed the key to the prison cell._

_I lied…when I called it a jailbreak._

_The truth is, my friend did pay bail, for both of us - dude’s rich, that kind of money is pocket change for him. The cops gave me the key to let you out of prison because my friend convinced them it would be a laugh. When we left the prison, we could’ve walked out the front door, free and clear. The Border Patrol let us through in Calais because we were not on-the-run. That police message on your answering machine wasn’t part of a manhunt, it was just a call to confirm your hearing date  -- which won’t happen until November, by the way._

_We were never fugitives, Greg_ _. It was all bullshit I made up to make things seem, I don’t know, romantic and adventurous. To buy me some time with…well, you. I knew that if I left that prison without you, you’d give me a night – 24 hours, like you said, and then you’d go back to life as usual – but if we were “on the run”, if we were in danger and police were nipping at our heels every step of the way, well, things would go exactly the way they went: it would turn into a weekend of sexy, exciting, no-holds-barred fun._

_Except, the weekend turned into five days, and somewhere along the way I started caring about you, more than I ever thought I could. I started caring about us, never mind that “us” was based on a big fucking lie, a lie I knew I could never recover from. I panicked, and I delayed until I couldn’t delay any longer._

_I don’t regret the delay, though. Even if all those kisses were stolen, I don’t regret a goddamn bit of it, not a single moment. Of all the things we did this weekend, my only regret is lying to you, and that’s the truth._

_I’m a selfish man. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I do, however, expect you to take full advantage of this do-over. When you get back to London, live your fucking life the way you want to, go after the girl, get the job you really want, and stop pretending to be someone you’re not, just because you’re worried about what everybody else thinks. You are smarter, stronger and braver than you think. John McClane is nothing compared to Greg Lestrade._

_The canal house is open, and your bike has been retrieved from the bar. It’ll be in front of the house by the time you get there. The house is yours until the weekend, just lock up whenever you leave._

_I am truly sorry, in every definition of the word._

_V._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do we love these fucking boys, and why am I crying in the middle of Starbucks? 
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- [Sylvie’s got excellent taste…](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/2e/0b/f4/2e0bf4ecbf08ba07f2e2b5bbb32143d8.jpg)
> 
> \- The Heineken Experience: [Lara works here](http://www.viator.com/Amsterdam-attractions/Heineken-Experience/d525-a766).
> 
> \- The Het IJ ferries: [pretty pictures](http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/Europe/Netherlands/Provincie_Noord_Holland/Amsterdam-463377/Transportation-Amsterdam-Free_Ferry_across_het_IJ-BR-1.html), even [timetables](http://www.ilovenoord.com/ferry/)… 
> 
>  
> 
> Don't worry, sugarpop, I wouldn't leave this on that note: click “Next Chapter” for the epilogue. 
> 
> <3  
>  vex.


	24. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

 

**The sense of well-being generally associated with MDMA can last for days, weeks and even months after taking the drug.**

[Rough Guide](http://www.urban75.com/Drugs/e_guide.html)

 

**Wednesday, October 23, 1997**

**10:07am**

Dishes were everywhere.

Dishes were everywhere because busboys were nowhere, because Kenny had fucking fired them all, hadn’t he, and now all the waitstaff had to bus their own tables.

_Fucking Kenny._

_Fucking busboys._

_Fucking dishes._

She hauled out the big gray bus bin, and went about clearing her tables, the four that lined the windows, on the right:

At Table 1, the crap students had poured out all the salt and sugar on the table, using their knives to razor them into passable, pretend “lines”, darling little delinquent shits. She swept it all into the bin, mopped the table, secured the lids on everything and moved on.

Table 2’s plates were manageable, by contrast: left behind by predictable, pleasant regulars who always ordered the same thing and always cleaned their plates. Tidy, and most appreciated. She made a mental note to sneak extra sausages into their next order as a thank you.

Table 3 was dreadful, but she knew it would be: single mom with two ill-behaved toddlers, and a tendency towards leniency. Charming. She’d be cleaning up Honey Loops out from under the table for the rest of the morning, she was sure.

Table 4, however, proved to be something altogether different. Dishes-wise, it had been the tidiest of them all, because the customer hadn’t eaten anything. He’d asked for apple pie, which they hadn’t had, and coffee, which they had, and he’d watched her work for a good long time before emptying his coffee cup, standing up and dropping money on the table, leaving without a word. Easiest table she’d had in weeks.

It wasn’t until she bussed the table that she found that money hadn’t been the only thing her customer had left behind. An envelope had been discreetly slipped beneath the saucer, an envelope addressed with her name.

Inside was a short note, a note she’d read often in the days, years and decades that followed: after every fight, after every separation and once – just once – after the divorce. The note was about mechanics and second chances – and, oddly, the movie “Die Hard”. Coiled at the very bottom of the envelope was something else: a slim collar, thin enough to pass off as a necklace, and made of the softest black leather.

Emma held the collar in her hand for a long moment, and then reached for her mobile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> This fic started in November of 2014, and I'm pleased to say, in the first week of August, 2015, we have finally come to the end of the story. This WIP is now COMPLETE!
> 
> Many thanks to those who have left comments over the months, and for anyone who read this because it was RabbitVerse, my kudos to you for taking a chance on a rarepair WIP! 
> 
> Happily, this is not the last of the RabbitVerse! I will return to this 'Verse soon (don't tell anyone, but it might be a Johnlock one-shot). BEFORE I get to that, though, I'll be writing a few palate-cleansing one-shots /outside/ of the Rabbit-y world, so patience, darlings, but do watch this space.
> 
> Thank you again, for your readership and your kind words! Stay safe!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


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